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PART VII. 



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^ POETRY— Vol. I., Part 2 



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THE 



FABLES OF LA FONTAINE 



TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH 



BY E. WRIGHT. 




The Dairy Woman. 



LONDON i 

INGRAM, COOKE, AND CO. 227, STRAND. 

1853. 



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THE FABLES 



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LA FONTAINE 



TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, 



By ELIZUR WRIGHT, June. 



VOL. I. 119 



INTKODTJCTION. 

This elegant translation of the most famous fabulist of modern times (if we may- 
be allowed to call tbe seventeenth century modern), is the work of an American 
author, who has admirably succeeded in embodying both the spirit, the grace, and 
the vivacity of the original in the translation. 

As Fables have interested and instructed mankind in every age, and as the Fables 
of La Fontaine may be said to be the standard collection of modern times, this 
translation has been considered as a most appropriate addition to the Universal 
Library. 

London, February, 1853.- 



120 



A PREFACE 

ON 

FABLE, THE FABULISTS, AND LA FONTAINE, 

BY THE TRANSLATOR. 



Human nature, when fresh from the hand of God, 
was full of poetry. Its sociality could not be pent 
within the bounds of the actual. To the lower 
inhabitants of air, earth, and water, — and even to 
those elements themselves, in all their parts and 
forms, — it gave speech and reason. The skies it 
peopled with beings, on the noblest model of which 
it could have any conception — to wit, its own. 
The intercourse of these beings, thus created and 
endowed, — from the deity kindled into immortality 
by the imagination, to the clod personified for the 
moment, — gratified one of its strongest propen- 
sities ; for man may well enough be defined as the 
historical animal. The faculty which, in after 
ages, was to chronicle the realities developed by 
time, had at first no employment but to place on 
record the productions of the imagination. Hence, 
fable blossomed and ripened in the remotest an- 
tiquity. We see it mingling itself with the primeval 
history of all nations. It ia not improbable that 
many of the narratives which have been preserved 
for us, by the bark or parchment of the first rude 
histories, as serious matters of fact, were originally 
apologues, or parables, invented to give power and 
wings to moral lessons, and afterwards modified, 
in their passage from mouth to mouth, by the well- 
known magic of credulity. The most ancient poets 
graced their productions with apologues. Hesiod's 
fable of the Hawk and the Nightingale is an in- 
stance. The fable or parable was anciently, as it 
is even now, a favourite weapon of the most suc- 
cessful orators. When Jotham would show the 
Shechemites the folly of their ingratitude, he ut- 
tered the fable of the Fig-Tree, the Olive, the Vine, 
and the Bramble. When the prophet Nathan 
would oblige David to pass a sentence of con- 
demnation upon himself in the matter of Uriah, 
he brought before him the apologue of the rich 
man who, having many sheep, took away that of 
the poor man who had but one. When Joash, the 
king of Israel, would rebuke the vanity of Amaziah, 
the king of Judah, he referred him to the fable of 
the Thistle and the Cedar. Our blessed Saviour, 
the best of all teachers, was remarkable for his 
constant use of parables, which are but fables— 
we speak it with reverence— adapted to the gravity 
of the subjects on which he discoursed. And, in 
profane history, we read that Stesichorus put the 



Himerians on their guard against the tyranny of 
Phalaris by the fable of the Horse and the Stag. 
Cyrus, for the instruction of kings, told the story 
of the fisher obliged to use his nets to take the- 
fish that turned a deaf ear to the sound of his flute. 
Menenius Agrippa, wishing to bring back the mu- 
tinous Roman people from Mount Sacer, ended his 
harangue with the fable of the Belly and the 
Members. A Ligurian, in order to dissuade King 
Comanus from yielding to the Phocians a portion 
of his territory as the site of Marseilles, introduced 
into his discourse the story of the bitch that bor- 
rowed a kennel in which to bring forth her young, 
but, when they were sufficiently grown, refused to 
give it up. 

In all these instances, we see that fable was a 
mere auxiliary of discourse — an implement of the 
orator. Such, probably, was the origin of the 
apologues which now form the bulk of the most 
popular collections. iEsop, -who lived about six 
hundred years before Christ, so far as we can 
reach the reality of his life, was an orator who 
wielded the apologue with remarkable skill. From 
a servile condition, he rose, by the force of his 
genius, to be the counsellor of kings and states. 
His wisdom was in demand far and wide, and on 
the most important occasions. The pithy apologues 
which fell from his lips, which, like the rules of 
arithmetic, solved the difficult problems of human 
conduct constantly presented to him, were remem- 
bered when the speeches that contained them were 
forgotten. He seems to have written nothing 
himself ; but it was not long before the gems which 
he scattered began to be gathered up in collections, 
as a distinct species of literature. The great and 
good Socrates employed himself, while in prison* 
in turning the fables of iEsop into verse. Though 
but a few fragments of his composition have come 
down to us, he may, perhaps, be regarded as the 
father of fable, considered as a distinct art. In- 
duced by his example, many Greek poets and phi- 
losophers tried their hands in it. Archilocus, 
Alcreus, Aristotle, Plato, Diodorus, Plutarch, and 
Lucian, have left us specimens. Collections of 
fables bearing the name of iEsop became current 
in the Greek language. It was not, however, till 
the year 1447, that the large collection which now 
bears his name was put forth in Greek prose by 



121 



ON FABLE, THE FABULISTS, AND LA FONTAINE. 



Planudes, a monk of Constantinople. This man 
turned the life of iEsop itself into a fable ; and La 
Fontaine did it the honour to translate it as a pre- 
face to his own collection. Though burdened with 
insufferable puerilities, it is not without the moral 
that a rude and deformed exterior may conceal 
both wit and worth. 

The collection of fables in Greek verse by 
Babrias was exceedingly popular among the 
Romans. It was the favourite book of the Em- 
peror Julian. Only six of these fables, and a few 
fragments, remain ; but they are sufficient to show 
that their author possessed all the graces of style 
which befit the apologue. Some critics place him 
in the Augustan age ; others make him contem- 
porary with Moschus. His work was versified in 
Latin, at the instance of Seneca ; and Quinctilian 
refers to it as a reading-book for boys. Thus, at 
all times, these playful fictions have been con- 
sidered fit lessons for children, as well as for men, 
who are often but grown-up children. So popular 
were the fables of Babrias and their Latin trans- 
lation, during the Roman empire, that the work of 
Phsedrus was hardly noticed. The latter was a 
freedman of Augustus, and wrote in the reign of 
Tiberius. His verse stands almost unrivalled for 
its exquisite elegance and compactness ; and pos- 
terity has abundantly avenged him for the neglect 
of contemporaries. La Fontaine is perhaps more 
indebted to Phredrus than to any other of his pre- 
decessors ; and, especially in the first six books, 
his style has much of the same curious condensa- 
tion. When the seat of the empire Avas trans- 
ferred to Byzantium, the Greek language took 
precedence of the Latin ; and the rhetorician 
Aphtonius wrote forty fables in Greek prose, which 
became popular. Besides these collections among 
the Romans, we find apologues scattered through 
the writings of their best poets and historians, and 
embalmed in those specimens of their oratory 
which have come down to us. 

The apologues of the Greeks and Romans were 
brief, pithy, and epigrammatic, and their col- 
lections were without any principle of connexion. 
But, at the same time, though probably unknown 
to them, the same species of literature was flourish- 
ing elsewhere under a somewhat different form. 
It is made a question, whether ^Esop, through the 
Assyrians, with whom the Phrygians had com- 
mercial relations, did not either borrow his art 
from the Orientals, or lend it to them. This dis- 
puted subject must be left to those who have a 
taste for such inquiries. Certain it is, however, 
that fable flourished very anciently with the people 
whose faith embraces the doctrine of metempsy- 
chosis. Among the Hindoos, there are two very 
ancient collections of fables, which differ from 
those which we have already mentioned, in having 
a principle of connexion throughout. They are, 
in fact, extended romances, or dramas, in which 
ail sorts of creatures are introduced as actors, and 
in which there is a development of sentiment and 
passion as well as of moral truth, the whole being- 
wrought into a system of morals particularly 
adapted to the use of those called to govern. One 
of these works is called the Pantcha Tantra, which 
signifies "Five Books," or Pentateuch. It is 
written in prose. The other is called the Hitopa- 
dem. or K Friendly Instruction," and is written in 
verse. Both are in the ancient Sanscrit language, 



and bear the name of a Brahmin, Vishnoo Sarmah. 
as the author. Sir William Jones, who is inclined 
to make this author the true iEsop of the world, 
and to doubt the existence of the Phrygian, gives 
him the preference to all other fabulists, both in 
regard to matter and manner. He has left a prose 
translation of the Hitopadesa, which, though it 
may not fully sustain his enthusiastic preference, 
shows it not to be entirely groundless. We give 
a sample of it, and select a fable which La Fon- 
taine has served up as the twenty- seventh of his 
eighth book. It should be understood that the 
fable, with the moral reflections which accompany 
it, is taken from the speech of one animal to 
another. 

" Frugality should ever be practised, but not excessive 
par.-imony ; for see bow a miser was killed by a bow drawn 
by himself!" 

" How was that ?" said Hiranyaca. 

w In the county of Calyanacataca," said Menthara, "lived 
a mighty hunter, named Bhairaza, or Terrible. One day 
he went, in search of game, into a forest on the mountains 
Tindhya ; when, having slain a fawn, and taken it up, he 
perceived a boar of tremendous size ; he therefore threw 
the fawn on the ground, and wounded the boar with an 
arrow ; the beast, horribly roaring, rushed upon him, and 
wounded him desperately, so that he fell, like a tree 
stricken with an axe. 



"In the meanwhile, a jackal, named Lougery, was 
roving in search of food ; and, having perceived the fawn, 
the hunter, and the boar, all three dead, he said to him- 
self, ' What a noble provision is here made for me !' 

" As the pains of men assail them unexpectedly, so their 
pleasures come in the same manner; a divine power 
strongly operates in both. 

" ' Be it so ; the flesh of these three animals will sustain 
me a whole month, or longer. 

"' A man suffices for one month; a fawn and a boar, 
for two ; a snake, for a whole day ; and then I will devour 
the bowstring.' "When the first impulse of his hunger was 
allayed, he said, ' This flesh is not yet tender ; let me taste 
the twisted string, with which the horns of this bow are 
joined.' So saying, he began to gnaw it ; but, in the instant 
when he had cut the string, the severed bow leaped forcibly 
up, and wounded him in the breast, so that he departed in 
the agonies of death. This I meant, when I cited the 
verse, Frugality should ever be practised, &c-." 

***** 

" What thou givestto distinguished men, and what thou 
eatest every day — that, in my opinion, isthine own wealth : 
whose is the remainder which thou hoardest ?" 

Works of Sir William Jones, vol. vi. p. 36. 

It was one of these books which Chosroes, the 
king of Persia, caused to be translated from the 
Sanscrit into the ancient language of his country, 
in the sixth century of the Christian era, sending 
an embassy into Hindostan expressly for that pur- 
pose. Of the Persian book a translation was made, 
in the time of the Calif Mansour, in the eighth 
century, into Arabic. This Arabic translation it 
is which became famous under the title of " The 
Book of Calila and Dimna,or the Fables of Bidpa'i." 
Calila and Dimna are the names of two jackals that 
figure in the history, and Bidpai is one of the 
principal human interlocutors, who came to be 
mistaken for the author. This remarkable book 
was turned into verse by several of the Arabic 
poets, was translated into Greek, Hebrew, Latin, 
modern Persian, and, in the course of a few 



122 



ON FABLE, THE FABULISTS, AND LA FONTAINE. 



centuries, either directly or indirectly, into most 
of the languages of modern Europe. 

Forty-one of the unadorned and disconnected 
fables of YEsop were also translated into Arabic at 
a period somewhat more recent than the Hegira, 
and passed by the name of the " Fables of Lokman." 
Their want of poetical ornament prevented them 
from acquiring much popularity with the Arabians ; 
but they became well known in Europe, as fur- 
nishing a convenient text-book in the study of 
Arabic. 

The Hitopadesa, the fountain of poetic fables, 
with its innumerable translations and modifications, 
seems to have had the greatest charms for the 
Orientals. As it passed down the stream of time, 
version after version, the ornament and machinery 
outgrew the moral instruction, till it gave birth, at 
last, to such works of mere amusement as the 
" Thousand and One Nights." 

Fable slept, with other things, in the dark ages 
of Europe. Abridgments took the place of the 
large collections, and probably occasioned the en- 
tire loss of some of them. As literature revived, 
fable was resuscitated. The crusades had brought 
European mind in contact with the Indian works 
which we have already described, in their Arabic 
dress. Translations and imitations in the European 
tongues were speedily multiplied. The " Romance 
of the Fox," the work of Perrot de Saint Cloud, 
one of the most successful of these imitations, dates 
back to the thirteenth century. It found its way 
into most of the northern languages, and became 
a household book. It undoubtedly had great in- 
fluence over the taste of succeeding ages, shedding 
upon the severe and satirical wit of the Greek and 
Roman literature the rich, mellow light of Asiatic 
poetry. The poets of that age were not confined, 
however, to fables from the Hindoo source. Marie 
de France, also, in the thirteenth century, versified 
one hundred of the fables of YEsop, translating 
from an English collection, which does not now 
appear to be extant. Her work is entitled the 
Ysopet, or "Little iEsop." Other versions, with 
the same title, were subsequently written. It was 
in 1417 that Planudes, already referred to, wrote 
in Greek prose a collection of fables, prefacing it 
with a life of iEsop, whjch, for a long time, passed 
for the veritable work of that ancient. In the 
next century, Abstemius wrote two hundred fables 
in Latin prose, partly of modern, but chiefly of 
ancient invention. At this time, the vulgar lan- 
guages had undergone so great changes, that works 
in them of two or three centuries old could not be 
understood, and, consequently, the Latin became 
the favourite language of authors. Many col- 
lections of fables were written in it, both in prose 
and verse. By the art of printing, these works 
were greatly multiplied ; and again the poets 
undertook the task of translating them into the 
language of the people. The French led the way 
in this species of literature, their language seeming 
to present some great advantages for it. One 
hundred years before La Fontaine, Corrozet, 
Guillaume Gueroult, and Philibert Hegemon, had 
written beautiful fables in verse, which it is sup- 
posed La Fontaine must have read and profited 
by, although they had become nearly obsolete in 
his time. It is a remarkable fact, that these 
poetical fables should so soon have been forgotten. 
it was soon after their appearance that the lan- 



guages of Europe attained their full development; 
and, at this epoch, prose seems to have been uni- 
versally preferred to poetry. So strong was this 
preference, that Ogilby, the Scotch fabulist, who 
had written a collection of fables in English verse, 
reduced them to prose on the occasion of publish- 
ing a more splendid edition in 1668. It seems to 
have been the settled opinion of the critics of that 
age, as it has, indeed, been stoutly maintained 
since, that the ornaments of poetry only impair 
the force of the fable — that the Muses, by becoming 
the handmaids of old YEsop, part with their own 
dignity without conferring any on him. La Fon- 
taine has made such an opinion almost heretical. 
In his manner there is a perfect originality, and 
an immortality every way equal to that of the 
matter which he gathered up from all parts of the 
great storehouse of human experience. His fables 
are like pure gold enveloped in solid rock-crystal. 
In English, a few of the fables of Gay, of Moore, 
and of Cowper, may be compared with them in 
some respects, but we have nothing resembling 
them as a whole. Gay, who has done more than 
any other, though he has displayed great power of 
invention, and has given his verse a flow worthy 
of his master, Pope, has yet fallen far behind La 
Fontaine in the general management of his ma- 
terials. His fables are all beautiful poems, but 
few of them are beautiful fables. His animal 
speakers do not sufficiently preserve their animal 
characters. It is quite otherwise with La Fon- 
taine. His beasts are made most nicely to observe 
all the proprieties not only of the scene in which 
they are called to speak, but of the great drama 
into which they are from time to time introduced. 
His work constitutes an harmonious whole. To 
those who read it in the original, it is one of the 
few which never cloy the appetite. As in the poetry 
of Burns, you are apt to think the last verse you 
read of him the best. 

But the main object of this Preface Avas to give 
a few traces of the life and literary career of our 
poet. A remarkable poet cannot but have been a 
remarkable man. Suppose we take a man with 
native benevolence amounting almost to folly ; but 
little cunning, caution, or veneration ; good per- 
ceptive, but better reflective faculties ; and a 
dominant love of the beautiful ; — and toss him into 
the focus of civilisation in the age of Louis XIV. 
It is an interesting problem to find out what will 
become of him. Such is the problem worked out 
in the life of Jeax de La Foxtaixe, born on the 
eighth of July, 1621, at Chateau-Thierry. His 
father, a man of some substance and station, com- 
mitted two blunders in disposing of his son. First, 
he encouraged him to seek an education for eccle- 
siastical life, which was evidently unsuited to his 
dispositions. Second, he brought about his mar- 
riage with a woman who was unfitted to secure 
his affections, or to manage his domestic affairs. 
In one other point, he was not so much mistaken : 
he laboured unremittingly to make his son a poet. 
Jean was a backward boy, and showed not the 
least spark of poetical genius till his twenty- second 
year. His poetical faculties did not ripen till long 
after that time. But his father lived to see him 
all, and more than all, that he had ever hoped. 

But we will first, in few words, despatch the 
worst — for there is a very bad part — of his life. 
It was not specially his life ; it was the life of the 



123 



ON FABLE, THE FABULISTS, AND LA FONTAINE. 



age in which he lived. The man of strong 
amorous propensities, in that age and country, 
who was, nevertheless, faithful to vows of either 
marriage or celibacy, — the latter vows then proved 
sadly dangerous to the former, — may he regarded 
as a miracle. La Fontaine, without any agency 
of his own affections, found himself married at the 
age of twenty-six, while yet as immature as most 
men are at sixteen. The upshot is, that his patri- 
mony dwindled ; ami, though he lived many years 
with his wife, and had a son, he neglected her 
more and more, till at last he forgot that he had 
been married, though he unfortunately did not 
forget that there were other women in the world 
besides his Avife. His genius and benevolence gained 
him friends everywhere with both sexes, who never 
suffered him to want, and who had never cause to 
complain of his ingratitude. But he was always the 
special-favourite of the Aspasias who ruled France 
andher kings. Toplease them, he wrote a great deal 
of fine poetry, much of which deserves to be ever- 
lastingly forgotten. It must be said for him, that 
his vice became conspicuous only in the light of 
one of his virtues, His frankness would never 
allow concealment. He scandalised his friends 
Boileau and Racine ; still, it is matter of doubt 
whether they did not excel him rather in prudence 
than in purity. But, whatever may be said in 
palliation, it is lamentable to think that a heaven- 
lighted genius should have been made in any way 
to minister to a hell-envenomed vice, which has 
caused unutterable woes to France and the world. 
Some time before he died, he repented bitterly of 
this part of his course, and laboured, no doubt 
sincerely, to repair the mischiefs he had done. 

As we have already said, Jean was a backward 
boy. But, under a dull exterior, the mental 
machinery was working splendidly within. He 
lacked all that outside care and prudence, — that 
constant looking out for breakers, — which obstruct 
the growth and ripening of the reflective faculties. 
The vulgar, by a queer mistake, call a man 
absent-minded, when his mind shuts tiie door, pulls 
in the latch-string, and is wholly at home. La 
Fontaine's mind was exceedingly domestic. It 
was nowhere but at home when, riding from Paris 
to Chateau- Thierry, a bundle of papers fell from 
his saddle-bow without his perceiving it. The 
mail- carrier, coming behind him, picked it up, 
and overtaking La Fontaine, asked him if he had 
lost anything. " Certainly not," he replied, looking 
about him with great surprise. " Well, I have just 
picked up these papers," rejoined the other. " Ah ! 
they are mine," cried La Fontaine ; " they in- 
volve my whole estate." And he eagerly reached 
to take them. On another occasion he was equally 
at home. Stopping on a journey, he ordered 
dinner at an hotel, and then took a ramble about 
the town. On his return, he entered another 
hotel, and, passing through into the garden, took 
from his pocket a copy of Livy, in which he 
quietly set himself to read till his dinner should 
be ready. The book made him forget his appetite, 
till a servant informed him of his mistake, and he 
returned to his hotel just in time to pay his bill 
and proceed on his journey. 

It will be perceived that he took the world 
quietly, and his doing so undoubtedly had impor- 
tant bearings on the style in which he wrote. But 
we will give another anecdote, which is still more 



characteristic of his peculiar mental structure. 
Not long after his marriage, with all his indif- 
ference to his wife, he was persuaded into a fit of 
singular jealousy. He was intimate with an ex- 
captain of dragoons, by the name of Poignant, 
who had retired to Chateau-Thierry ; a frank, 
open-hearted man, but of extremely little gallantry. 
Whenever Poignant was not at his inn, he was at 
La Fontaine's, and consequently with his wife, 
when he himself was not at home. Some person 
took it in his head to ask La Fontaine why he 
suffered these constant visits. " And why," said 
La Fontaine, "should I not ? He is my best friend." 
" The public think otherwise," was the reply ; 
" they say that he comes for the sakeof Madame La 
Fontaine." "The public is mistaken ; but what 
must I do in the case?" said the poet. " You 
must demand satisfaction, sword in hand, of one 
who has dishonoured you." "Very well," said 
La Fontaine, " I will demand it." The next day 
he called on Poignant, at four o'clock in the morn- 
ing, and found him in bed. " Rise," said he, 
" and come out with me !" His friend asked him 
what was the matter, and what pressing business 
had brought him so early in the morning. "I 
shall let you know," replied La Fontaine, " when 
we get abroad." Poignant, in great astonishment, 
rose, followed him out, and asked whither he was 
leading. " You shall know by and by," replied 
La Fontaine ; and at last, when they had reached 
a retired place, he said, " My friend, we must 
fight." Poignant, still more surprised, sought to 
know in what he had offended him, and moreover, 
represented to him that they were not on equal 
terms. "I am a man of war," said he, "while, 
as for you, you have never drawn a sword." 
" No matter,'' said La Fontaine ; " the public re- 
quires that I should fight you." Poignant, after 
having resisted in vain, at last drew his sword, 
and, having easily made himself master of La 
Fontaine's, demanded the cause of the quarrel. 
" The public maintains," said La Fontaine, "that 
you come to my house daily, not for my sake, but 
my wife's." " Ah ! my friend," replied the 
other, " I should never have suspected that was 
the cause of your displeasure, and I protest I will 
never again put a foot wmiin your doors." " On 
the contrary," replied La Fontaine, seizing him 
by the hand, " 1 have satisfied the public, and 
now you must come to my house, every day, or 
I will fight you again." The two antagonists 
returned, and breakfasted together in good- 
humour. 

It was not, as we have said, till his twenty- 
second year, that La Fontaine showed any taste 
for poetry. The occasion was this : — An officer, 
in winter-quarters at Chateau-Thierry, one day 
read to him, with great spirit, an ode of Malherbe, 
beginning thus — 

Que direz-vons, races futures, 

Si quelquefois un vrai discours 
Vous recite les aventures 

De nos abominables jours ? 

Or, as we might paraphrase it, — 

"What will ye say, ye future days, 
If I, for once, in honest rhymes, 

Recount to you the deeds and ways 
Of our abominable times ? 

La Fontaine listened with mechanical transports 



124 



ON FABLE, THE FABULISTS, AND LA FONTAINE. 



of joy, admiration, and astonishment, as if a man 
born with a genius for music, but brought up in a 
desert, had for the first time heard a well-played 
instrument. He set himself immediately to read- 
ing Malherbe, passed his nights in learning his 
verses by heart, and his days in declaiming them 
in solitary places. He also read Voiture, and 
began to * write verses in imitation. Happily, at 
this period, a relative named Pintrel, directed his 
attention to ancient literature, and advised him. to 
make himself familiar with Horace, Homer, Virgil, 
Terence, and Quinctilian. He accepted this 
counsel. M. cle Maucroix, another of his friends, 
who cultivated poetry with success, also contri- 
buted to confirm his taste for the ancient models. 
His great delight, however, was to read Plato and 
Plutarch, which he did only through translations. 
The copies which he used are said to bear his 
manuscript notes on almost every page, and these 
notes are the maxims which are to be found in 
his fables. Returning from this study of the 
ancients, he read the moderns with more discri- 
mination. His favourites, besides Malherbe, Avere 
Corneille, Rabelais, and Marot. In Italian, he 
read Ariosto, Boccaccio, and Machiavel. In 16'54, 
he published his first work, a translation of the 
Eunuch of Terence. It met with no success. 
But this does not seem at all to have disturbed its 
author. He cultivated verse-making with as much 
ardour and good-humour as ever ; and his verses 
soon began to be admired in the circle of his 
friends. No man had ever more devoted friends. 
Verses that have cost thought are not relished 
without thought. When a genius appears, it 
takes some little time for the world to educate 
itself to a knowledge of the fact. By one of his 
friends, La Fontaine was introduced to Fouquet, 
the minister of finance, a man of great power, 
and who rivalled his sovereign in wealth and 
luxury. It was his pride to be the patron of 
literary men, and he was pleased to make La 
Fontaine his poet, settling on him a pension of one 
thousand francs per annum, on condition that he 
should produce a piece in verse each quarter, — a 
condition which was exactly complied with till the 
fall of the minister. 

Foucmet was a most splendid villain, and posi- 
tively, though perhaps not comparatively, deserved 
to fall. But it was enough for La Fontaine that Fou- 
quet had done him a kindness. He took the part of 
the disgraced minister, without counting the cost. 
His " Elegy to the Nymphs of Vaux" was a shield 
to the fallen man, and turned popular hatred into 
sympathy. The good-hearted poet rejoiced ex- 
ceedingly in its success. Bon-homme was the appel- 
lation which his friends pleasantly gave him, and by 
which he became known everywhere ; — and never 
did a man better deserve it in its best sense. He 
was good by nature — not by the calculation of con- 
sequences. Indeed it does not seem ever to have 
occurred to him that kindness, gratitude, and 
truth, could have any other than good consequences. 
He was truly a Frenchman without guile, and 
possessed to perfection that comfortable trait, — in 
which French character is commonly allowed to 
excel the English, — good-humour with the whole 
world. 

La Fontaine was the intimate friend of Moliere, 
Boileau, and Racine. Moliere had already es- 
tablished a reputation ; but the others became 



known to the world at the same time. Boileau 
hired a small chamber in the Faubourg Saint 
Germain, where they all met several times a week; 
for La Fontaine, at the age of forty-four, had left 
Chateau-Thierry, and become a citizen of Paris. 
Here they discussed all sorts of topics, admitting 
to their society Chapelle, a man of less genius, but 
of greater conversational powers, than either of 
them — a sort of connecting link between them and 
the world. Four poets, or four men, could hardly 
have been more unlike. Boileau was blustering, 
blunt, peremptory, but honest and frank ; Racine, 
of a pleasant and tranquil gaiety, but mischievous 
and sarcastic ; Moliere was naturally considerate, 
pensive, and melancholy ; La Fontaine was often 
absent-minded, but sometimes exceedingly jovial, 
delighting with his sallies, his witty naivetes, and 
his' arch simplicity. These meetings, which no 
doubt had a great influence upon French litera- 
ture, La Fontaine, in one of his prefaces, thus 
describes : — " Four friends, whose acquaintance 
had begun at the foot of Parnassus, held a sort of 
society, which I should call an Academy, if their 
number had been sufficiently great, and if they had 
had as much regard for the Muses as for pleasure. 
The first thing which they did was to banish from 
among them all rules of conversation, and every- 
thing which savours of the academic conference. 
When they met, and had sufficiently discussed 
their amusements, if chance threw them upon any 
point of science or belles-lettres, they profited by 
the occasion ; it was, however, without dwelling 
too long on the same subject, flitting from one 
thing to another like the bees that meet divers 
sorts of flowers on their way. Neither envy, 
malice, nor cabal, had any voice among them. 
They adored the works of the ancients, never re- 
fused due praise to those of the moderns, spoke 
modestly of their own, and gave each other sincere 
counsel, when any one of them — which rarely 
happened — fell into the malady of the age, and 
published a book.'' 

The absent-mindedness of our fabulist not un- 
frequently created much amusement on these 
occasions, and made him the object of mirthful 
conspiracies. So keen 1 '.' was the game pursued 
by Boileau and Racine, that the more considerate 
Moliere felt obliged sometimes to expose and re- 
buke them. Once, after having clone so, he 
privately told a stranger, who was present with 
them, the wits would have worried themselves in 
vain ; they could not have obliterated the bon- 
homme. 

La Fontaine, as we have said, was an admirer 
of Eabelais ; — to what a pitch, the following anec- 
dote may show. At one of the meetings at 
Boileau's were present Racine, Valincourt, and a 
brother of Boileau's, a doctor of the Sorbonne. The 
latter took it upon him to set forth the merits of 
St. Augustin in a pompous eulogium. La Fon- 
taine, plunged in one of his habitual reveries, 
listened without hearing. At last, rousing himself 
as if from a profound sleep, to prove that the con- 
versation had not been lost upon him, he asked 
the doctor, with a very serious air, whether he 
thought St. Augustin had as much wit as Rabelais. 
The divine, surprised, looked at him from head to 
foot, and only replied, " Take care, Monsieur La 
Fontaine ; — you have put one of your stockings on 
wrong side outwards" — which was the fact. 



125 



ON FABLE, THE FABULISTS, AND LA FONTAINE. 



It was in 1668 that La Fontaine published his 
first collection of fables, under the modest title 
Fables Choisies, mises en Vers, in a quarto volume, 
with figures designed and engraved by Chauveau. 
It contained six books, and was dedicated to the 
Dauphin. Many of the fables had already been 
published in a separate form. The success of this 
collection was so great, that it was reprinted the 
same year in a smaller size. Fables had come 
to be regarded as beneath poetry ; La Fontaine 
established them at once on the top of Parnassus. 
The ablest poets of his age did not think it beneath 
them to enter the lists with him ; and it is needless 
to say they came off second best. 

One of the fables of the first book is addressed 
to the Duke de la Rochefoucauld, and was the con- 
sequence of a friendship between La Fontaine and 
the author of the celebrated " Maxims." Con- 
nected with the duke was Madame La Fayette, 
one of the most learned and ingenious women of 
her age, who consequently became the admirer 
and friend of the fabulist. To her he wrote verses 
abundantly, as he did to all who made him the 
object of their kind regard. Indeed, notwith- 
standing his avowed indolence, or rather passion 
for quiet and sleep, his pen was very productive. 
In 1669, he published " Psyche," a romance in 
prose and verse, which he dedicated to the 
Duchess de Bouillon, in gratitude for many kind- 
nesses. The prose is said to be better than the 
verse ; but this can hardly be true in respect to 
the following lines, in which the poet under the 
apt name of Polyphile, in. a hymn addressed to 
Pleasure, undoubtedly sketches himself: — 

Volupte, Volupte. qui fus jadis maitresse 

Du plus bel esprit de la Grece, 
Ne me dedaigne pas ; viens-t'en loger chez moi : 

Tu n'y seras pas sans emploi : 
J'aime le jcu, l'amour, les livres, la musiquc, 
La ville et la campagne, enfin tout ; il n'est rien 

Qui ne me soit souverain bien, 
Jusqu'au sombre plaisir d'un cceur mclancoliquc. 
Vicns done .... 

The characteristic grace and playfulness of this 
seem to defy translation. To the mere English 
reader, the sense may be roughly given thus : — 

Delight, Delight, who didst as mistress hold 

The finest wit of Grecian mould, 
Disdain not me ; but come, 
And make my house thy home. 

Thou shalt not be without employ : 

In play, love, music, books, I joy, 
In town and country ; and, indeed, there's nought, 
E'en to the luxury of sober thought, — 

The sombre, melancholy mood, — 

But brings to me the sovereign good. 

Come, then, &c. 

The same Polyphile, in recounting his adven- | 
tures on a visit to the infernal regions, tells us ! 
that lie saw, in the hands of the cruel Eumenides, 

Les auteurs de mafnt hymen force, 

L'amant chiche, et la dame au cceur interesse ; 
La troupe des censeurs, peuple a FAmour rebelle ; 
Ceux enfin dont les vers ont noirci quelque belle. 

Artificers of many a loveless match, 

And lovers who but sought the pence to catch ; 
The crew censorious, rebels against Love ; 
And those whose verses soiled the fair above. 



To be " rebels against Love " was quite unpardon- 
able with La Fontaine ; and to bring about a 
"hymen force" was a crime, of which he proba- 
bly spoke with some personal feeling. The great 
popularity of " Psyche " encouraged the author to 
publish two volumes of poems and tales in 1671, 
in which were contained several new fables. The 
celebrated Madame de Sevigne thus speaks of these 
fables, in one of her letters to her daughter : — 
" But have you not admired the beauty of the five 
or six fables of La Fontaine, contained in one of 
the volumes which I sent you 1 "We were charmed 
with them the other day at M. de la Rochefou- 
cauld's : we got by heart that of the Monkey and 
the Cat." Then, quoting some lines, she adds, — 
" This is painting ! And the Pumpkin — and the 
Nightingale — they are worthy of the first volume!" 
It was in his Stories that La Fontaine excelled ; 
and Madame de Sevigne expresses a wish to invent 
a fable which would impress upon him the folly of 
leaving his peculiar province. He seemed himself 
not insensible where his strength lay, and seldom 
ventured upon any other ground, except at the 
instance of his friends. With all his lightness, he 
felt a deep veneration for religion — the most spi- 
ritual and rigid which came within the circle of 
his immediate acquaintance. He admired Janse- 
nius and the Port Royalists, and heartily loved 
Racine, who was of their faith. Count Henri- 
Louis de Lomenie, of Brienne, — who, after being 
secretary of state, had retired to the Oratoire, 
— was engaged in bringing out a better collection 
of Christian lyrics. To this work he pressed La 
Fontaine, whom he called his particular friend, to 
lend his name and contributions. Thus the author 
of "Psyche,'' " Adonis," and " Joconde," was led 
to the composition of pious hymns, and versifica- 
tions of the Psalms of David. Gifted by nature- 
with the utmost frankness of disposition, he sym- 
pathised fully with Arnauld and Pascal in the war 
against the Jesuits ; and it would seem, from his 
Ballade sur Escobar, that he had read and relished 
the " Provincial Letters." This ballad, as it may 
be a curiosity to many, shall be given entire : — 



^allaue 

SUR ESCOBAR. 

C'est a bon droit que Ton condamne a Rome 

L'eveque d'Ypre.* auteur de vains debats ; 
Ses sectateurs nous defendent en somme 

Tous les plaisirs que Ton goute ici-bas. 

En paradis allant au petit pas, 
On y parvient, quoi qu'AitNAULD nous en die : 
La volupte sans cause il a bannie. 

Veut-on monter sur les celestes toux - s, 
Chemin pierreux est grande reverie, 

EscoEAk saitun chemin de velours. 

II ne dit pas qu'on peut tuer unhomme 

Qui sans raison nous tient en altercas 
Pour un fetu ou bien pour une pemme ; 

Mais qu'on le peut pour quatre ou cinq ducats. 

Meme il soutient qu ! on peut en certains cas 
Faire un serment plein de supercherie, 
S'abandonner aux douceurs de la vie, 

S'il est besoin conserver ses amours. 
!S T e faut-il pas apres cela qu'on crie : 

Escobar sait un chemin de velours ? 



* Corneille Jansenius. 



126 



ON FABLE, THE FABULISTS, AND LA FONTAINE. 



An nom de Dieu, lisez-moi quelque somine 

De ces ecrits dont chez lui Ton fait cas. 
Q,u'est-il besoin qu'a present je les norame ? 

II en est tant qu'on ne les connoit pas ! 

De leurs avis servez-vous pour compas : 
N'admettez qu'eux en votre librairie ; 
Brulez Arnauld avec sa coterie, 

Pres d'EscoBAR ce ne sont qu'esprits lourds. 
Je vous le dis : ce n'est point railleric, 

Escobar sait un chemin de velours. 

ENVOI. 

Toi, que l'orgueil poussa dans la voirie, 
Qui tiens la-bas noire conciergeric, 

Lucifer, chef des infernales cours, 
Pour eviter les traits de ta f urie, 

Escobar sait un chemin de velours. 

Thus does the Bon-homme treat the subtle 
Escobar, the prince and prototype of the moralists 
of expediency. To translate his artless and deli- 
cate irony is hardly possible. The writer of this 
hasty Preface offers the following only as an 
attempted imitation : — 

UPON ESCOBAR. 

Good cause has Rome to reprobate 

The bishop who disputes her so ; 
His followers reject and hate 

All pleasures that we taste below. 

To heaven an easy pace may go, 
Whatever crazy Arnauld saith, 
Who aims at pleasure causeless wrath. 

Seek we the better world afar ? 
We're fools to choose the rugged path : 

A velvet road hath Escobar. 

Although he does not say you can, 

Should one with you for nothing strive, 
Or for a trifle, kill the man — 

You can for ducats four or five. 

Indeed, if circumstances drive, 
Defraud, or take false oaths you may, 
Or to the charms of life give way, 

When Love must needs the door unbar. 
Henceforth must not the pilgrim say, 

A velvet road hath Escobar ? 

Now, would to God that one would state 

The pith of all his works to me. 
What boots it to enumerate ? 

As well attempt to drain the sea ! — 

Your chart and compass let them be ; 
All other books put under ban ; 
Burn Arnauld and his rigid clan — 

They're blockheads if we but compare ; — 
It is no joke, — I tell you, man, 

A velvet road hath Escobar. 



Thou warden of the prison black, 
Who didst on heaven turn thy back, 

The chieftain of th' infernal war ! 
To shun thy arrows and thy rack, 

A velvet road hath Escobar. 

The verses of La Fontaine did more for his re- 
putation than for his purse. His paternal estate 
wasted away under his carelessness ; for, when 
the ends of the year refused to meet, he sold a 
piece of land sufficient to make them do so. His 



wife, no bettor qualified to manage worldly gear 
than himself, probably lived on her famijy friends, 
who were able to support her, and who seem to 
have done so without blaming him. She had 
lived with him in Paris for some time after that 
city became his abode ; but, tiring at length of 
the city life, she had returned to Chateau- Thierry, 
and occupied the family mansion. At the earnest 
expostulation of Boileau and Racine, who wished 
to make him a better husband, he returned to 
Chateau-Thierry himself, in 1666, for the purpose 
of becoming reconciled to his wife. But his pur- 
pose strangely vanished. He called at his own 
house, learned from the domestic, who did not 
know him, that Madame La Fontaine was in good 
health, and passed on to the house of a friend, 
where he tarried two days, and then returned to 
Paris without having seen his wife. When his 
friends inquired of him his success, with some 
confusion he replied, " I have been to see her, 
but I did not find her : she was well." Twenty 
years after that, Racine prevailed on him to visit 
his patrimonial estate, to take some care of what 
remained. Racine, not hearing from him, sent to 
know what he was about, when La Fontaine wrote 
as follows : — " Poignant, on his return from Paris, 
told me that you took my silence in very bad part: 
the worse, because you had been told that I have 
been incessantly at work since my arrival at 
Chateau-Thierry, and that, instead of applying 
myself to my affairs, I have had nothing in my 
head but verses. All this is no more than half 
true : my affairs occupy me as much as they 
deserve to — that is to say not at ail ; but the 
leisure which they leave me — it is not poetry, but 
idleness, which makes away with it." On a cer- 
tain occasion, in the earlier part of his life, when 
pressed in regard to his improvidence, he gaily 
produced the following epigram, which has com- 
monly been appended to his fables as " The Epitaph 
of La Fontaine, written by Himself " : — 

Jean s'en alia comme il etoit venu. 

Mangea le fonds avec le revenu, 

Tint les tresors chose peu necessaire. 

Quant a son temps, bien sut le dispenser : 
Deux parts en fit, dont il souloit passer 

L'une a dormir, et l'autre a ne rien faire. 

This confession, the immortality of which was so 
little foreseen by its author, liberally rendered, 
amounts to the following : — 

John went as he came— ate his farm with its fruits, 
Held treasure to be but the cause of disputes ; 
And, as to his time, be it frankly confessed, 
Divided it daily as suited him best, — 
Gave a part to his sleep, and to nothing the rest. 

It is clear that, a man who provided so little for 
himself needed good friends to do it ; and Heaven 
kindly furnished them. When his affairs began 
to be straitened, he was invited by the celebrated 
Madame dela Sabliereto make her house his home; 
and there, in fact, he was thoroughly domiciliated 
for twenty years. " I have sent away all my 
domestics," said that lady, one day ; " I have 
kept only my dog, my cat, and La Fontaine." 
She was, perhaps, the best- educated woman in 
France, was the mistress of several languages, 
knew Horace and Virgil by heart, and had been 



127 



ON FABLE, THE FABULISTS, AND LA FONTAINE. 



thoroughly indoctrinated in all the sciences by the 
ablest masters. Her husband. M. Rambouillet de 
la Sabliere, was secretary to the king, and register 
of domains, and to immense wealth united con- 
siderable poetical talents, with a thorough know- 
ledge of the world. It was the will of Madarne de 
la Sabliere, that her favourite poet should have no 
further care for his external wants ; and never 
was a mortal more perfectly resigned. He did all 
honour to the sincerity of his amiable hostess ; 
and, if he ever showed a want of independence, he 
certainly did not of gratitude. Compliments of 
more touching tenderness we nowhere meet than 
those which La Fontaine has j:>aid to his benefac- 
tress. He published nothing which was not first 
submitted to her eye, and entered into her affairs 
and friendships with all his heart. Her unbounded 
confidence in his integrity she expressed by saving, 
" La Fontaine never lies in prose." By her death, 
in 1393, our fabulist was left without a home; 
but his many friends vied with each other which 
should next furnish one. He was then seventy- 
two >ears of age, had turned his attention to per- 
sonal religion, and received the seal of conversion 
at the hands of the Roman Catholic church. In 
his conversion, as in the rest of his life, his frank- 
ness left no room to doubt his sincerity. The 
writings which had justly given offence to the 
good were made the subject of a public confession, 
and everything in his power was done to prevent 
their circulation. The death of one who had done 
so much for him, and whose last days, devoted 
with the most self-denying benevolence to the 
welfare of her species, had taught him a most 
salutary lesson, could not but be deeply felt. He 
had just left the house of his deceased benefactress, 
never again to enter it, when he met M. d'Hervart 
in the street, who eagerly said to him, " My dear 
La Fontaine, I was looking for you, to beg you to 
come and take lodgings in my house." " I was 
going thither," replied La Fontaine. A reply could 
not have been more characteristic. The fabulist 
had not in him sufficient hypocrisy of which to 
manufacture the commonplace politeness of society. 
His was the politeness of a warm and unsuspect- 
ing heart. He never concealed his confidence, in 
the fear that it might turn out to be misplaced. 

His second collection of fables, containing five 
books, La Fontaine published in 1G78-9, with a 
dedication to Madame de Montespan ; the previous 
six books were republished at the same time, 
revised and enlarged. The twelfth book was not 
added till many years after, and proved, in fact, 
the song of the dying swan. It was written for 
the special use of the young Duke de Bourgogne, 
the royal, pupil of Fenelon, to whom it contains 
frequent allusions. The eleven books now pub- 
lished sealed the reputation of La Fontaine, and 
were received with distinguished regard by the 
king, who appended to the ordinary protocol or 
imprimatur for publication the following reasons : 
" In order to testify to the author the esteem we 
have for his person and his merit, and because 
youth have received great advantage in their edu- 
cation from the fables selected and put in verse, 
which he has heretofore published." The author 
was, moreover, permitted to present his book in 
person to the sovereign. For this purpose he 
repaired to Versailles, and after having well 
delivered himself of his compliment to royalty, 



perceived that he had forgotten to bring the book 
which he was to present ; he was, nevertheless, 
favourably received, and loaded with presents. 
But it is added, that, on his return, he also lost, 
by his absence of mind, the purse full of gold 
which the king had given him, which was happily 
found under a cushion of the carriage in which he 
rode. 

In his advertisement to the second part of his 
Fables, La Fontaine informs the reader that he 
had treated his subjects in a somewhat different 
style. In fact, in his first collection, he had 
timidly confined himself to the brevity of iEsop 
and Phcedrus ; but, having observed that those 
fables were most popular in which he had given 
most scope to his own genius, he threw off the 
trammels in the second collection, and, in the 
opinion of the writer, much for the better. His 
subjects, too, in the second part, are frequently 
derived from the Indian fabulists, and bring with. 
them the richness and dramatic interest of the 
Hitopadesa. 

Of all his fables, the Oak and the Reed is said 
to have been the favourite of La Fontaine. But 
his critics have almost unanimously given the 
palm of excellence to the Animals sick of the 
Plague, the first of the seventh book. Its exqui- 
site poetry, the. perfection of its dialogue, and the 
weight of its moral, well entitle it to the place. 
That must have been a soul replete with honesty, 
which could read such a lesson in the ears of a 
proud and oppressive court. Indeed, we may 
look in vain through this encyclopaedia of fable for 
a sentiment which goes to justify the strong in 
their oppression of the weak. Even in the midst 
of the fulsome compliments which it was the 
fashion of his age to pay to royalty, La Fontaine 
maintains a reserve and decency peculiar to him- 
self. By an examination of his fables, we think. 
we might fairly establish for him the character of 
an honest and disinterested lover and respecter of 
his species. In his fable entitled Death and the 
Dying, he unites the genius of Pascal and Moliere ; 
in that of the Two Doves is a tenderness quite 
peculiar to himself, and an insight into the heart 
worthy of Shakspeare. In his Mogul's Dream 
are sentiments worthy of the very high-priest of 
nature, and expressed, in his own native tongue 
with a felicity which makes the translator feel that 
all his labours are but vanity and vexation of 
spirit. But it is not the purpose of this brief 
Preface to criticise the Fables. It is sufficient to 
say, that the work occupies a position in French 
literature, which, after all has been said that 
can be for Gay, Moore, and others, — English 
versifiers of fables, — is left quite vacant in 
ours. 

Our author was elected a member of the French 
Academy in 1684, and received with the honour 
of a public session. He read on this occasion a 
poem of exquisite beauty, addressed to his bene- 
factress, Madame de la Sabliere. In that distin- 
guished body of men he was a universal favourite ; 
and none, perhaps, did more to promote its prime 
object — the improvement of the French language. 
We have already seen how he was regarded by 
some of the greatest minds of his age. Voltaire, 
who never did more than justice to merit other 
than his own, said of the Fables, " I hardly know 
a book which more abounds with charms adapted 



128 



ON FABLE, THE FABULISTS, AND LA FONTAINE. 



to the people, and at the same time to persons of 
refined taste. I believe that, of all authors, La 
Fontaine is the most universally read. He is for 
all minds and all ages.." La Bruyere, when ad- 
mitted to the Aeadem.y, in 1693, was warmly 
applauded for his eloge upon La Fontaine, which 
contained the following words : — " More equal 
than Marot, and more poetical than Voiture, La 
Fontaine has the playfulness, felicity, and artless- 
ness of both. He instructs while he sports, per- 
suades men to virtue by means of beasts, and 
exalts trifling subjects to the sublime ; a man 
unique in his species of composition, always origi- 
nal, whether he invents or translates, — who has 
gone beyond his models, himself a model hard to 
imitate." 

La Fontaine, as we have said, devoted his latter 
days to religion. In this he was sustained and 
cheered by his old friends Racine and De Maucroix. 
Death overtook him while applying his poetical 
powers to the hymns of the church. To De Mau- 
croix he wrote, a little before his death, — " I assure 
you that the best of your friends cannot count upon 
more than fifteen days of life. For these two 
months I have not gone abroad, except occasion- 
ally to attend the Academy, for a little amusement. 
Yesterday, as I was returning from it, in the 



middle of the Rue du Chantre, I was taken with 
such a faintness that I really thought myself 
dying. 0, my friend, to die is nothing ; but think 
you how I am going to appear before God ! You 
know how I have lived. Before you receive this 
billet, the gates of eternity will perhaps have been 
opened upon me !" To this, a few days after, 
his friend replied, — a If God, in his kindness, 
restores you to health, I hope you will come and 
spend the rest of your life with me, and we shall 
often talk together of the mercies of God. If, 
however, you have not strength to write, ' beg 
M. Racine to do me that kindness, the greatest he 
can ever do for me. Adieu, my good, my old, and 
my true friend. May God, in his infinite good- 
ness, take care of the health of your body, and that 
of your soul." He died the 13th of April, 1C95, 
at the age of seventy-three, and was buried in the 
cemetery of the Saints-Innocents. 

When Fenelon heard of his death, he wrote a 
Latin eulogium, which he gave to his royal pupil 
to translate. " La Fontaine is no more ! " said 
Fenelon, in this composition ; " he is no more ! 
and with him have gone the playful jokes, the 
merry laugh, the artless graces, and the sweet 
Muses.'' 



129 



FABLES OF LA FONTAINE, 



TO MONSEIGNEUR THE DAUPHIN. 



II.— THE RAVEN AND THE FOX. 



I sing the heroes of old JSsop's line, 
Whose tale, though false when strictly we define, 
Containeth truths it were not ill to teach. 
With me all natures use the gift of speech ; 
Yea, in my work, the very fishes preach, 
And to our human selves their sermons suit, 
"lis thus to come at man I use the brute. 

Son of a Prince the favourite of the skies, 
On whom the world entire hath fix'd its eyes, 
Who hence shall count his concmests by his days, 
And gather from the proudest lips his praise, 
A louder voice than mine must tell in song 
What virtues to thy kingly line belong. 
I seek thine ear to gain by lighter themes, 
Slight pictures, deck'd in magic nature's beams ; 
And if to please thee shall not be my pride, 
I'll gain at least the praise of having tried. 



BOOK I. 



L— THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE ANT. 

A grasshopper gay 
Sang the summer away, 
And found herself poor 
By the winter's first roar. 
Of meat or of bread, 
Not a morsel she had ! 
So a begging she went, 
To her neighbour the ant, 

For the loan of some wheat, 

Which would serve her to eat 
Till the season came round. 

I will pay you, she saith, 

On an animal's faith, 
Double weight in the pound 
Ere the harvest be bound. 

The ant is a friend 

(And here she might mend) 

Little given to lend. 
How spent you the summer % 

Quoth she, looking shame 

At the borrowing dame. 
Night and day to each comer 

I sang, if you please. 

You sang ! I'm at ease ; 
For 'tis plain a,t a glance, 
Now, ma'am, you must dance. 



Perch'd on a lofty oak, 
Sir Raven held a lunch of cheese ; 
Sir Fox, who smelt it in the breeze, 

Thus to the holder spoke : — 
Ha ! how do you do, Sir Raven ? 
Well, your coat, sir, is a brave one ! 
So black and glossy, on my word, sir, 
With voice to match, you were a bird, sir, 
Well fit to be the Phoenix of these days. 
Sir Raven, overset with praise, 
Must snow how musical his croak. 
Down fell the luncheon from the oak ; 
Which snatching up, Sir Fox thus spoke 

The flatterer, my good sir, 

Aye liveth on his listener ; 

Which lesson, if you please, 

Is doubtless worth the cheese. 
A bit too late, Sir Raven swore 
The rogue should never cheat him more 



III.— THE FROG THAT WISHED TO EE AS 
BIG AS THE OX. 

The tenant of a bog, 
An envious little frog, 
Not bigger than an egg, 
A stately bullock spies, 
And, smitten with his size, 
Attempts to be as big. 
With earnestness and pains, 
She stretches, swells, and strains, 
And says, Sis Frog, look here ! see me ! 
Is this enough ? No, no. 
Well, then, is this 1 Poh ! poll ! 
Enough ! you don't begin to be. 
And thus the reptile sits, 
Enlarging till she splits. 
The world is full of folks 

Of just such wisdom ; — 
The lordly dome provokes 

The cit to build his dome ; 
And, really, there is no telling 
How much great men set little onea a swelling. 



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[BOOK. I. 



IV.— THE TWO MULES. 



Two mules were bearing on their backs, 
One, oats ; the other, silver of the tax. 
The latter, glorying in his load, 
March'd proudly forward on the road ; 
And, from the jingle of his bell, 
'Twas plain he liked his burden well. 
But in a wild-wood glen 
A band of robber men 
Rush'd forth upon the twain. 

Well with the silver pleased, 
They by the bridle seized 
The treasure-mule so vain. 
Poor mule ! in struggling to repel 
His ruthless foes, he fell 
Stabb'd through ; and with a bitter sighing. 
He cried, Is this the lot they promised me ? 
My humble friend from danger free, 
While, weltering in my gore, I'm dying ? 

My friend, his fellow-mule replied, 
It is not well to have one's work too high. 
If thou hadst been a miller's drudge, as I, 
Thou wouldst not thus have died. 



V.— THE "WOLF AXD THE DOG. 

A prowling wolf, whose shaggy skin 
(So strict the watch of dogs had been) 

Hid little but his bones, 
Once met a mastiff dog astray. 
A prouder, fatter, sleeker Tray, 

No human mortal owns. 
Sir Wolf in famish'd plight, 

Would fain have made a ration 

Upon his fat relation ; 
But then he first must fight ; 

And well the dog seenrd able 

To save from wolfish table 
His carcass snug and tight. 

So, then, in civil conversation 

The wolf express'd his admiration 
Of Tray's fine case. Said Tray, politely, 
Yourself, good sir, may be as sightly, 

Quit but the woods, advised by me. 

For all your fellows here, I see, 
Are shabby wretches, lean and gaunt, 
Belike to die of haggard want. 
With such a pack, of course it follows, 
One fights for every bit he swallow?. 

Come, then, with me, and share 

On equal terms our princely fare. 
But what with you 
Has one to do % 
Inquires the wolf. Light -work indeed, 
Replies the dog ; you only need 
To bark a little now and then, 
To chase off duns and beggar men, 
To fawn on friends that come or go forth, 
Your master please, and so forth ; 

For which you have to eat 

All sorts of well-cook'd meat — 
Cold pullets, pigeons, savoury messes — 
Besides unnumber'd fond caresses. 

The wolf, by force of appetite, 

Accepts the terms outright, 



Tears glistening in his eyes, 
But faring on, he spies 

A gall'd spot on the mastiff's neck. 
What's that ? he cries. 0, nothing but a speck. 
A speck ? Ay, ay ; 'tis not enough to pain me ; 
Perhaps the collar's mark by which they chain me. 
Chain ! chain you ! What ! run you not, then, 
Just where you please, and when ? 
Not always, sir ; but what of that I 
Enough for me, to spoil your fat ! 
It ought to be a precious price 
Which could to servile chains entice ; 
For me, I'll shun them while I've wit. 
So ran Sir Wolf, and runneth yet. 



VI. — THE HEIFER, THE GOAT, AND TIIE 
SHEEP, IX COMPANY WITn TIIE LION. 

The heifer, the goat, and their sister the sheep, 
| Compacted their earnings in common to keep. 
: 'Tis said, in time past, with a lion, who sway'd 
; Full lordship o'er neighbours, of whatever grade. 
' The goat, as it happen'd, a stag having snared, 
' Sent off to the rest, that the beast might be shared. 
j All gather'd ; the lion first counts on his claws, 
J And says, We'll proceed to divide with our paws 
: The stag into pieces, as fix'd by our laws. 

This done, he announces part first as his own ; 
'Tis mine, he says, truly, as lion alone. 
To such a decision there's nought to be said, 
As he who has made it is doubtless the head. 
Well, also, the second to me should belong ; 
'Tis mine, be it known, by the right of the strong. 
Again, as the bravest, the third must be mine. 
To touch but the fourth whoso maketh a sign, 
I'll choke him to death 
In the space of a breath ! 



VII.— TIIE WALLET. 

From heaven, one day, did Jupiter proclaim, 
Let all that live before my throne appear, 
And there if any one hath aught to blame, 
In matter, form, or texture of his frame, 

He may bring forth his grievance without fear. 
Redress shall instantly be given to each. 
Come, monkey, now, first let us have your speech. 
You see these quadrupeds your brothers ; 
Comparing, then, yourself with others, 
Are you well satisfied ? And wherefore not ? 
Said Jock. Haven't I four trotters with the rest I 
Is not my visage comely as the best ? 
But this my brother Bruin, is a blot 
On thy creation fair.; 
And sooner than be painted I'd be shot, 
Were I, great sire, a bear. 
j The bear approaching, doth he make complaint ? 
J Not he ; — himself he lauds without restraint. 
The elephant he needs must criticise ; 
To crop his ears and stretch his tail were wise; 
A creature he of huge, misshapen size. 
The elephant though famed as beast judicious, 
While on his own account he had no wishes, 
| Pronounced dame whale too big to suit his taste ; 
Of flesh and fat she was a perfect waste. 
The little ant, again, pronounced the gnat too wee ; 
To such a speck, a vast colossus she. 



132 



BOOK I.] 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



Each censured by the rest, himself content, 
Back to their homes all living things were sent. 
Such folly liveth yet with human fools. 
For others lynxes, for ourselves but moles, 
Great blemishes in other men we spy, 
Which in ourselves we pass most kindly by. 
As in this world we're but way-farers, 
Kind Heaven has made us wallet-bearers. 
The pouch behind our own defects must store, 
The faults of others loctee in that before. 



VIII.— THE SWALLOW AND THE LITTLE BIRDS. 



By voyages in air, 
With constant thought and care, 
Much knowledge had a swallow gain'd. 
Which she for public use retain' d. 
The slightest storms she well foreknew, 
And told the sailors ere they blew. 
A farmer sowing hemp once having found, 
She gather'd all the little birds around, 
And said, My friends, the freedom let me take 
To prophesy a little, for your sake, 
Against this dangerous seed. 
Though such a bird as I 
Knows how to hide or fly, 
You birds a caution need. 
See you that waving hand ? 
It scatters on the land 
What well may cause alarm. 
'Twill grow to nets and snares, 
To catch you unawares, 
And work you fatal harm ! 
Great multitudes I fear, 
Of you, my birdies dear, 
That falling seed, so little, 
Will bring to cage or kettle ! 
But though so perilous the plot, 
You now may easily defeat it : 
All lighting on the seeded spot, 
Just scratch up every seed and eat it. 
The little birds took little heed, 
So fed were they with other seed. 
Anon the field was seen 
Bedeck'd in tender green. 
The swallow's warning voice was heard again 
My friends, the product of that deadly grain, 
Seize now, and pull it root by root, 
Or surely you'll repent its fruit. 
False, babbling prophetess, says one, 
You'd set us at some pretty fun ! 
To pull this field a thousand birds are needed, 
While thousands more with hemp are seeded. 

The crop now quite mature, 
The swallow adds, Thus far I've faiPd of cure ; 
I've prophesied in vain 
Against this fatal grain : 
It's grown. And now, my bonny birds, 
Though you have disbelieved my words 
Thus far, take heed at last, — 
When you shall see the seed time past, 
And men. no crops to labour for, 
On birds shall wage their cruel war, 
With deadly net and noose; 
Of flying then beware, 
Unless you take the air, 
Like woodcock, crane, or goose- 
But stop ; you're not in plight 
For such adventurous flight, 



O'er desert waves and sands, 
In search of other lands. 
Hence, then, to save your precious souls, 
Bemaineth but to say, 
'Twill be the safest way 
To chuck yourselves in holes. 
Before she had thus far gone, 
The birdlings, tired of hearing, 
And laughing more than fearing, 
Set up a greater jargon 
Than did, before the Trojan slaughter, 
The Trojans round old Priam's daughter. 
And many a bird, in prison grate, 
Lamented soon a Trojan fate. 

I 'Tis thus we heed no instincts but our own 
Believe no evii till the evil's done. 



IX.— THE CITY RAT AND THE COUNTRY RA'. 

A city rat, one night, 

Did with a civil stoop 
A country rat invite 

To end a turtle soup. 

Upon a Turkey carpet 

They found the table spread. 

And sure I need not harp it 
How well the fellows fed. 

The entertainment was 

A truly noble one ; 
But some unlucky cause 

Disturb'd it when begun. 

It was a slight rat-tat, 

That put their joys to rout ; 

Out ran the city rat ; 

His guest, too, scamper'd out. 

Our rats but fairly quit, 

The fearful knocking ceased. 

Beturn we, cried the cit, 
To finish there our feast. 

No, said the rustic rat ; 

To-morrow dine with me. 
I'm not offended at 

Your feast so grand and free, — ■ 

For I've no fare resembling ; 
But then I eat at leisure, 
And would not swap for pleasure 

So mix'd with fear and trembling. 



X.— THE WOLF AND THE LAME. 

That innocence is not a shield, 
A story teaches, not the longest. 

The strongest reasons always yield 
To reasons of the strongest. 

A lamb her thirst was slaking 

Once at a mountain rill. 
A hungry wolf was taking 
His hunt for sheep to kill, 
When, spying on the streamlet's brink 
This sheep of tender age, 
He howl'd in tones of rage, 
How dare you roil my drink \ 



133 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



[hook I. 



Your impudence I shall chastise ! 

Let not your majesty, the lamb replies, 

Decide in haste or passion ! 
For sure 'tis difficult to think 

In what respect or fashion 
My drinking here could roil your drink, 
Since on the stream your majesty now faces 
I'm lower down full twenty paces. 

You roil it, said the wolf; and, more, I know 
You cursed and slander'd me a year ago. 
no ! how could I such a thing have done ! 
A lamb that has not seen a year, 
A suckling of its mother dear ? 
Your brother then. But brother I have none. 
Well, well, what's all the same, 
'Twas some one of your name. 
Sheep, men, and dogs of every nation, 
Are wont to stab my reputation, 
As I have truly heard. 
Without another word, 
He made his vengeance good, — 
Bore off the lambkin to the wood, 
And there without a jury, 
Judged, slew, and ate her in his fury. 



XI. — THE MAN AND HIS IMAGE. 

TO M. THE DUKE DE LA ROCHEFOUCAULD. 

A man, who had no rivals in the love 

Which to himself he bore, 
Esteenvd his own dear beauty far above 

What earth had seen before. 
More than contented in his error, 
He lived the foe of every mirror. 
Officious fate, resolved our lover 
From such an illness should recover, 
Presented always to his eyes 
The mute advisers which the ladies prize ;— 
Mirrors in parlours, inns, and shops. — 
Mirrors the pocket furniture of fops, — 
Mirrors on every lady's zone, 
From which his face reflected shone. 
AVhat could our dear Narcissus do ? 
From haunts of men he now withdrew, 
On purpose that his precious shape 
From every mirror might escape. 
But in his forest glen alone, 

Apart from human trace, 

A watercourse, 

Of purest source, 
While with unconscious gaze 
He pierced its waveless face, 

Reflected back his own. 
Incensed with mingled rage and fright, 
He seeks to shun the odious sight ; 
But yet that mirror sheet, so clear and still, 
He cannot leave, do what he will. 

Ere this, my story's drift you plainly see. 
Fi-om such mistake there is no mortal free. 
That obstinate self-lover 
The human soul doth cover ; 
The mirrors follies are of others, 
In which, as all are genuine brothers, 
Each soul may see to life depicted 
Itself with just such faults afflicted; 
And by that charming placid brook, 
Needless to say, I mean your Maxim Book. 



XII.— THE DRAGON WITH MANY HEADS, AND 
THE DRAGON WITH MANY TAILS. 



An envoy of the Porte Sublime, 
As history says, once on a time, 
Before th' imperial German court 
Did rather boastfully report 
The troops commanded by his master's firman, 
As being a stronger army than the German : 
To which replied a Dutch attendant, 
Our prince has more than one dependant 
Who keeps an army at his own expense. 

The Turk, a man of sense, 

Rejoin'd, I am aware 
What power your emperor's servants share. 
It brings to mind a tale both strange and true, 
A thing which once, myself, I chanced to view. 
I saw come darting through a hedge, 
Which fortified a rocky ledge, 
A hydra's hundred heads ; and in a trice 

My blood was turning into ice. 

But less the harm than terror, — 

The body came no nearer ; 

Nor could unless it had been sunder d 

To parts at least a hundred. 

While musing deeply on this sight, 

Another dragon came to light, 

Whose single head avails 

To lead a hundred tails : 
And, seized with juster fright, 

I saw him pass the hedge, — 

Head, body, tails, — a wedge 
Of living and resistless powers. — 
The other was your emperor's force ; this ours. 



XIII.— THE THIEVES AND THE ASS. 



Two thieves, pursuing their pi-ofession, 

Had of a donkey got possession, 
Whereon a strife arose, 
Which went from words to blows. 

The question was to sell, or not to sell ; 

But while our sturdy champions fought it well, 
Another thief, who chanced to pass, 
With ready wit rode off the ass. 

This ass is, by interpretation, 
Some province poor, or prostrate nation. 
The thieves are princes this and that, 
On spoils and plunder prone to fat, — ■ 
As those of Austria, Turkey, Hungary. 
(Instead of two, I've quoted three — 
Enough of such commodity.) 
These powers engaged in war all, 
Some fourth thief stops the quarrel, 

According all to one key 

By riding off the donkey. 



XIV.— SIMONIDES PRESERVED BY THE GODS 

Three sorts there are, as Malherbe says, 
Which one can never overpraise — 
The gods, the ladies, and the king ; 
And I, for one, endorse the thing. 



184 



BOOK T.] 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



The heart, praise tickles and entices ; 
Of fair one's smile, it oft the price is. 
See how the gods sometimes repay it. 
Simonides — the ancients say it — 
Once undertook, in poem lyric, 
To -write a wrestler's panegyric ; 
"W hich ere he had proceeded far in, 
He found his subject somewhat barren. 
No ancestors of great renown, 
His sire of some unnoted town, 
Himself as little known to fame, 
The wrestler's praise was rather tame. 
The poet, having made the most of 
Whate'er his hero had to boast of, 
Digress'd, by choice that was not all luck's, 
To Castor and his brother Pollux ; 
Whose bright career was subject ample, 
For wrestlers, sure, a good example. 
Our poet fatten' d on their story, 
Gave every fight its place and glory, 

Till of his panegyric words 

These deities had got two thirds. 
All done, the poet's fee 
A talent was to be. 
But when he comes his bill to settle, 
The wrestler, with a spice of mettle, 
Pays down a third, and tells the poet, 
The balance they may pay who owe it. 
The gods than I are rather debtors 
To such a pious man of letters. 
But still I shall be greatly pleased 
To have your presence at my feast, 
Among a knot of guests select, 
My kin, and friends I most respect. 
More fond of character than coffer, 
Simonides accepts the offer. 
While at the feast the party sit, 
And wine provokes the flow of wit, 
It is announced that at the gate 
Two men, in haste that cannot wait, 
Would see the bard. He leaves the table, 
No loss at all to'ts noisy gabble. 
The men were Leda's twins, who knew 
What to a poet's praise was due, 
And, thanking, paid him by foretelling 
The downfall of the wrestler's dwelling. 
From which ill-fated pile, indeed, 
No sooner was the poet freed, 
Than, props and pillars failing, 
Which held aloft the ceiling 

So splendid o'er them, 
It downward loudly crash'd, 
The plates and flagons dash'd, 
And men who bore them ; 
And, what was worse, 
Full vengeance for the man of verse, 
A timber broke the wrestler's thighs, 
And wounded many otherwise. 

The gossip Fame, of course, took care 

Abroad to publish this affair. 
A miracle ! the public cried, delighted. 
No more could god-beloved bard be slighted. 
His verse now brought him more than double, 
With neither duns, nor care, nor trouble. 

Whoe'er laid claim to noble birth 
Must buy his ancestors a slice, 

Resolved no nobleman on earth 
Should overgo him in the price. 

From which these serious lessons flow : — 

Fail not your praises to bestow 



On gods and godlike men. Again, 

To sell the product of her pain 

Is not degrading to the muse. 

Indeed, her art they do abuse, 

Who think her wares to use, 

And yet a liberal pay refuse. 

Whate'er the great confer upon her, 

They're honour'd by it while they honour. 
Of old, Olympus and Parnassus 
In friendship heaved their sky-crown' d masses. 



XV.— DEATH AND THE UNFORTUNATE. 

A poor unfortunate, from clay to day, 
Call'd Death to take him from this world away. 
Death, he said, to me how fair thy form ! 
Come quick, and end for me life's cruel storm. 
Death heard, and, with a ghastly grin, 
Knock'd at his door, and enter'd in. 
With horror shivering, and affright, 
Take out this object from my sight, 

The poor man loudly cried ; 
Its dreadful looks I can't abide ; 
stay him, stay him ; let him come no nigher j 
Death ! Death ! I pray thee to retire. 

A gentleman of note 
In Rome, Maecenas, somewhere wrote : — 
Make me the poorest wretch that begs, 
Sore, hungry, crippled, clothed in rags, 
In hopeless impotence of arms and legs J 
Provided, after all, you give 
The one sweet liberty to live, 
I'll ask of Death no greater favour 
Than just to stay away for ever. 



XVI.— DEATH AND THE WOODMAN. 



A poor wood-chopper, with his fagot load, 
Whom weight of years, as well as load, oppress'd, 
Sore groaning in his smoky hut to rest, 
Trudged wearily along his homeward road. 
At last his wood upon the ground he throws, 
And sits him down to think o'er all his woes. 
To joy a stranger, since his hapless birth, 
What poorer wretch upon this rolling earth ? 
No bread sometimes, and ne'er a moment's rest 5 
Wife, children, soldiers, landlords, public tax, 
All wait the swinging of his old, worn axe, 
And paint the veriest picture of a man unblest. 
On Death he calls. Forthwith that monarch grim. 
Appears, and asks what he should do for him. 
Not much, indeed ; a little help I lack 
To put these fagots on my back. 

Death ready stands all ills to cure, 

But let us not his cure invite. 
Than die, 'tis better to endure, — 

Is both a manly maxim and a right - 



XVII.— THE MAN BETWEEN TWO AGES, 
HIS TWO MISTRESSES. 

A man of middle age, wnose hair 
Was bordei'ing on the gray, 

Began to turn his thoughts and care 
The matrimonial way. 



AN1> 



VOL. I. 



135 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE, 



[BOOK I. 



By virtue of his ready, 

A store of choices had he 
Of ladies bent to suit his taste ; 
On which account he made no haste. 
To court well was no trifling art. 
Two widows chiefly gain'd his heart ; 
The one yet green, the other more mature, 
Who found for nature's wane in art a cure. 
These dames, amidst them joking and caressing 

The man they long'd to wed, 
Would sometimes set themselves to dressing 

His party-colour'd head. 

Each aiming to assimilate 

Her lover to her own estate, 

The older piecemeal stole 

The black hair from his poll, 

While eke, with fingers light, 

The young one stole the white. 
Between them both, as if by scald, 
His head was changed from gray to bald. 
For these, he said, your gentle pranks, 
I owe you, ladies, many thanks. 

By being thus well shaved, 

I less have lost than saved. 

Of Hymen, yet, no news at hand, 
I do assure ye. 

By what I've lost, I understand 
It is in your way, 

Not mine, that I must pass on. 

Thanks, ladies, for the lesson. 



XVin.— THE FOX AND THE STORK. 



Old Mister Fox was at expense, one day, 

To dine old Mistress Stork. 
The fare was light, was nothing, sooth to say, 

Requiring knife and fork. 
That sly old gentleman, the dinner-giver, 
Was, you must understand, a frugal liver. 
This once, at least, the total matter 
Was thinnish soup served on a platter, 
For madam's slender beak a fruitless puzzle 
Till all had pass'd the fox's lapping muzzle. 
But little relishing his laughter, 
Old gossip Stork, some few days after, 
Return' d his Foxship's invitation. 
Without a moment's hesitation, 
He said he'd go, for he must own he 
Ne'er stood with friends for ceremony. 
And so, precisely at the hour, 
He hied him to the lady's bower, 
Where, praising her politeness. 
He finds her dinner right nice. 
Its punctuality and plenty, 
Its viands, cut in mouthfuls dainty, 
Its fragrant smell, were powerful to excite, 
Had there been need, his foxish appetite. 
But now the dame, to torture him. 
Such wit was in hex*, 
Served up her dinner 
In vases made so tall and slim, 
They let then- owner's beak pass in and out, 
But not, by any means, the fox's snout ! 
All arts without avail, 
With drooping head and tail, 
As ought a fox a fowl had cheated, 
The hungry guest at last retreated. 

Ye knaves, for you is this recital, 
You'll often meet Dame Stork's requital. 



XIX.— THE BOY AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. 

Wise counsel is not always wise, 
As this my tale exemplifies. 
A boy, that frolick'd on the banks of Seine, 
Fell in, and would have found a watery grave, 
Had not that hand that planteth ne'er in vain 
A willow planted there, his life to save. 
While hanging by its branches as he might, 
A certain sage preceptor came in sight ; 
To whom the urchin cried, Save, or I'm drown'd. 
The master, turning gravely at the sound, 
Thought proper for a while to stand aloof, 
And give the boy some seasonable reproof. 

You little wretch ! this comes of foolish playing, 

Commands and precepts disoheying. 

A naughty rogue, no doubt, you are, 

Who thus requite your parents' care. 

Alas ! their lot I pity much, 

Whom fate condemns to watch o'er such. 

This having coolly said, and more, 

He pull'd the drowning lad ashore. 

This story hits more marks than you suppose. 
All critics, pedants, men of endless prose, — 
Three sorts so richly bless'd with progeny, 
The house is bless'd that doth not lodge any,— 
May in it see themselves from head to toes. 
No matter what the task, 

Their precious tongues must teach ; 
Their help in need you ask, 

You first must hear them preach. 



XX.— THE COCK AND THE PEARL. 



A cock scratched up, one day, 

A pearl of purest ray, 
Which to a jeweller he bore. 

I think it fine, he said, 

But yet a crumb of bread 
To me were worth a great deal more. 

So did a dunce inherit 

A manuscript of merit, 
Which to a publisher he bore. 

'Tis good, said he, I'm told, 

Yet any coin of gold 
To me were worth a great deal more. 



XXL— THE HORNETS AND THE BEES. 
The artist by his work is known. 

A piece of honey-comb one clay, 
Discover'd as a waif and stray, 
The hornets treated as their own. 
Their title did the bees dispute, 
And brought before a wasp the suit. 
The judge was puzzled to decide, 
For nothing could be testified 
Save that around this honey-comb 
There had been seen, as if at home, 
Some longish, brownish, buzzing creatures, 
Much like the bees in wings and features. 
But what of that ? for marks the same, 
The hornets, too, could truly claim. 



136 



BOOK JI.J 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



Between assertion, and denial, 
The wasp, in doubt, proclaim'd new trial ; 
And, hearing what an ant-hill swore, 
Could see no clearer than before. 
What use, I pray, of this expense ? 
At last exclaim'd a bee of sense. 

We've labour' d months in this affair, 
And now are only where we were. 
Meanwhile the honey runs to waste : 
'Tis time the judge should show some haste. 
The parties, sure, have had sufficient bleeding, 
Without more fuss of scrawls and pleading. 
Let's set ourselves at work, these drones and we, 
And then all eyes the truth may plainly see, 
Whose art it is that can produce 
The magic cells, the nectar juice. 
The hornets, flinching on their part, 
Show that the work transcends their art. 
The wasp at length their title sees, 
And gives the honey to the bees. 

Would God that suits at law with us 

Might all be managed thus ! 
That we might, in the Turkish mode, 
Have simple common sense for code ! 
They then were short and cheap affairs, 
Instead of stretching on like ditches, 
Ingulfing in their course all riches,— 
The parties leaving for their shares, 
The shells (and shells there might be moister) 
From which the court has suck'd the oyster. 



XXII.— THE OAK AND THE REED. 

The oak one day address'd the reed : — 

To you ungenerous indeed 

Has nature been, my humble friend, 

With weakness aye obliged to bend. 

The smallest bird that flits in air 

Is quite too much for you to bear ; 

The slightest wind that wreathes the lake 

Your ever-trembling head doth shake. 

The while, my towering form 

Dares with the mountain top 

The solar blaze to stop, 

And wrestle with the storm. 
What seems to you the blast of death, 
To me is but a zephyr's breath. 
Beneath my branches had you grown, 

That spread far round their friendly bower. 
Less suffering would your life have known, 
Defended from the tempest's power. 
Unhappily you oftenest show 

In open air your slender form, 
Along the marshes wet and low, 

That fringe the kingdom of the storm. 

To you declare I must, 

Dame Nature seems unjust. 
Then modestly replied the reed : 
Your pity, sir, is kind indeed, 
But wholly needless for my sake. 
The wildest wind that ever blew 
Is safe to me compared with you. 
I bend, indeed, but never break. 
Thus far, I own, the hurricane 
Has beat your sturdy back in vain ; 
But wait the end. Just at the word. 
The tempest's hollow voice was heard. 



The North sent forth her fiercest child, 
Dark, jagged, pitiless, and wild. 
The oak, erect, endured the blow ; 
The reed bow'd gracefully and low. 
But, gathering up its strength once more, 
In greater fury than before, 
The savage blast 
Overthrew, at last, 
That proud, old, sky-encircled head, 
Whose feet entwined the empire of the dead ! 



BOOK II. 

I.— AGAINST THE HARD TO SUIT. 



Were I a pet of fair Calliope, 
I would devote the gifts conferr'd on me 
To dress in verse old iEsop's lies divine ; 
For verse, and they, and truth, do well combine. 
But, not a favourite on the Muses' hill, 
I dare not arrogate the magic skill 
To ornament these charming stories. 
A bard might brighten up their glories, 
No doubt. I try, — what one more wise must do. 
Thus much I have accomplished hitherto ; — 
By help of my translation, 
The beasts hold conversation 

In French, as ne'er they did before. 

Indeed, to claim a little more, 

The plants and trees, with smiling features, 

Are turn'd by me to talking creatures. 

Who says that this is not enchanting ? 

Ah, say the critics, hear what vaunting 

From one whose work, all told, no more is 

Than half-a-dozen baby stories. 
Would you a theme more credible, my censors, 
In graver tone, and style which now and then soars? 
Then list ! For ten long years the men of Troy, 
By means that only heroes can employ, 
Had held the allied hosts of Greece at bay, — 
Their minings, batterings, stormings day by day, 
Their hundred battles on the crimson plain, 
Their blood of thousand heroes, all in vain, — 
When, by Minerva's art, a horse of wood, 
Of lofty size before their city stood, 
Whose flanks immense the sage Ulysses hold, 
Brave Diomed, and Ajax fierce and bold, 
Whom, with their myrmidons, the huge machine 
Would bear within the fated town unseen, 
To wreak upon its very gods their rage — 
Unheard-of stratagem, in any age. 
Which well its crafty authors did repay .... 

Enough, enough, our critic folks wili say ; 
Your period excites alarm, 

Lest you should do your lungs some harm ; 
And then your monstrous wooden horse, 
With squadrons in it at their ease, 
Is even harder to endorse 

Than Renard cheating Raven of his cheese. 
And, more than that, it fits you ill 
To wield the old heroic quill. 
Well, then, a humbler tone, if such your will is : — 
Long sigh'd and pined the jealous Amaryllis 
For her Alcippus, in the sad belief, 
None, save her sheep and dog, would knowher grief 



m 2 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



[BOOK II. 



Thyrsis, who knows, among the willows slips, 
And hears the gentle shepherdess's lips 
Beseech the kind and gentle zephyr 

To bear these accents to her lover 

Stop, says my censor : 
l'o laws of rhyme quite irreducible, 
That couplet needs again the crucible ; 
Poetic men, sir, 
Must nicely shun the shocks 
Of rhymes unorthodox. 
A curse on critics ! hold your tongue ! 
Know I not how to end my song ? 
Of time and strength what greater waste 
Than my attempt to suit your taste 1 

Some men, more nice than wise, 
There's nought that satisfies. 



IL— THE COUNCIL HELD BY THE RATS. 

Old Rodilard, a certain cat, 

Such havoc of the rats had made, 
'Twas difficult to find a rat 

With nature's debt unpaid. 
The few that did remain, 

To leave their holes afraid, 
From usual food abstain, 
Not eating half their fill. 
And wonder no one will 
That one who made of rats his revel, 
With rats pass'd not for cat, but devil. 
Now, on a day, this dread rat-eater, 
Who had a wife, went out to meet her ; 
And Avhile he held his caterwauling, 
The unkilPd rats, their chapter calling, 
Discuss'd the point, in grave debate, 
How they might shun impending fate. 

Their dean, a prudent rat, 
Thought best, and better soon than late, 

To bell the fatal cat ; 
That, when he took his hunting round, 
The rats, well caution'd by the sound, 
Might hide in safety under ground ; 
Indeed he knew no other means. 
And all the rest 
At once confess' d 
Their minds were with the dean's. 
No better plan, they all believed, 
Could possibly have been conceived, 
No doubt the thing would work right well, 
If any one would hang the bell. 
But, one by one, said every rat, 
I'm not so big a fool as that. 
The plan, knock'd up in this respect, 
The council closed without effect. 
And many a council I have seen, 
Or reverend chapter with its dean, 
That, thus resolving wisely, 
Fell through like this precisely. 

To argue or refute 

Wise counsellors abound ; 

The man to execute 
Is harder to be found. 



III.— THE WOLF ACCUSING- THE FOX BEFORE 
THE MONKEY. 

A wolf, affirming his belief 
That he had suffer' d by a thief, 

Brought up his neighbour fox — > 
Of whom it was by all confess'd, 
His character was not the best — 

To fill the prisoner's box- 
As judge between these vermin, 
A monkey graced the ermine ; 
And truly other gifts of Themis 

Did scarcely seem his ; 
For while each party plead his cause, 
Appealing boldly to the laws, 
And much the question vex'd, 
Our monkey sat perplex'd. 

Their words and wrath expended, 
Their strife at length was ended ; 
When, by their malice taught, 
The judge this judgment brought : 
Your characters, my friends, I long have known, 

As on this trial clearly shown ; 
And hence I fine you both — the grounds at large 

To state would little profit - 
You wolf, in short, as bringing groundless charge, 
You fox, as guilty of it. 

Come at it right or wrong, the judge opined 
No other than a villain could be fined. 



IV.— THE TWO BULLS AND THE FROG. 

Two bulls engaged in shocking battle, 

Both for a certain heifer's sake, 
And lordship over certain cattle ; 
A frog began to groan and quake. 
But what is this to you ? 
Inquired another of the croaking crew. 
Why, sister, don't you see, 
The end of this will be, 
That one of these big brutes will yield, 
And then be exiled from the field ? 
No more permitted on the grass to feed, 
He'll forage, through our marsh, on rush and reed ; 
And while he eats or chews the cud, 
Will trample on us in the mud. 
Alas ! to think how frogs must suffer 
By means of this proud lady heifer ! 
This fear was not without good sense. 
One bull was beat, and much to their expense 
For, quick retreating to their reedy bower, 
He trod on twenty of them in an hour. 

Of little folks it oft has been the fate 
To suffer for the follies of the great. 



V.— THE BAT AND THE TWO WEASELS. 

A blundering bat once stuck her head 
Into a wakeful weasel's bed ; 
Whereat the mistress of the house, 

A deadly foe of rats and mice, 

Was making ready in a trice 
To eat the stranger as a mouse. 

What ! do you dare, she said, to creep in 
The very bed I sometimes sleep in, 



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THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



Now, after all the provocation 

I've suffer' d from your thievish nation % 

Are you not really a mouse, 

That gnawing pest of every house, 

Your special aim to do the cheese ill' 

Ay, that you are, or I'm no weasel. 

I beg your pardon, said the hat ; 
My kind is very far from that. 
What ! I a mouse ! Who told you such a lie ? 

Why, ma'am, I am a bird ; 

And, if you doubt my word, 
Just see the wings with which I fly. 
Long live the mice that cleave the sky ! 

These reasons had so fair a show, 

The weasel let the creature go. 

By some strange fancy led 

The same wise blunderhead, 

But two or three days later, 
Had chosen for her rest 
Another weasel's nest, 
This last, of birds a special hater. 

New peril brought this step absurd : 
Without a moment's thought or puzzle, 
Dame weasel oped her peaked muzzle 

To eat th' intruder as a bird. 
Hold ! do not wrong me, cried the bat ; 
I'm truly no such thing as that. 
Your eyesight strange conclusions gathers. 
What makes a bird, I pray 1 Its feathers. 

I'm cousin of the mice and rats. 

Great Jupiter confound the cats ! 
The bat, by such adroit replying, 
Twice saved herself from dying. 

And many a human stranger 
Thus turns his coat in danger ; 
And sings, as suits where'er he goes, 
God save the king ! — or save his foes ! 



VI.— THE BIRD WOUNDED BY AN ARROW. 

A bird, with plumed arrow shot, 
In dying case deplored her lot : 

Alas ! she cried, the anguish of the thought ! 

This ruin partly by myself was brought ! 
Hard-hearted men ! from us to borrow 
What wings to us the fatal arrow ! 
But mock us not, ye cruel race, 
For you must often take our place. 

The work of half the human brothers 
Is making arms against the others. 



VII.— THE BITCH AND HER FRIEND. 

A bitch, that felt her time approaching, 

And had no place for parturition, 
Went to a female friend, and, broaching 
Her delicate condition, 
Got leave herself to shut 
Within the other's hut. 
At proper time the lender came 
Her little premises to claim. 
The bitch crawl'd meekly to the door, 
And humbly begg'd a fortnight more. 
Her little pups, she said, could hardly walk. 
In short, the lender yielded to her talk. 



The second term expired, the friend had eome 
To take possession of her house and home. 
The bitch, this time, as if she would have bit her. 
Replied, I'm ready, madam, with my litter, 
To go when you can turn me out. 
Her pups, you see, were fierce and stout. 

The creditor, from whom a villain borrows, 

Will fewer shillings get again than sorrows. 

If you have trusted people of this sort, 

You'll have to plead, and dun, and fight ; in short, 

If in your house you let one step a foot, 

He'll surely step the other in to boot. 



VIII.— THE EAGLE AND THE BEETLE. 

John Rabbit, by Dame Eagle chased, 
Was making for his hole in haste, 
When, on his way, he met a beetle's burrow. 
I leave you all to think 
If such a little chink 
Could to a rabbit give protection thorough. 
But, since no better could be got, 
John Rabbit there was fain to squat. 
Of course, in an asylum so absurd, 
John felt ere long the talons of the bird. 
But first, the beetle, interceding, cried, 
Great queen of birds, it cannot be denied, 
That, maugre my protection, you can bear 
My trembling guest, John Rabbit, through the air. 
But do not give me such affront, I pray ; 
And since he craves your grace, 
In pity of his case, 
Grant him his life, or take us both away ; 
For he's my gossip, friend, and neighbour. 
In vain the beetle's friendly labour ; 
The eagle clutch 'd her prey without reply, 
And as she flapp'd her vasty wings to fly, 
Struck down our orator and still'd him ; 
The wonder is she hadn't kill'd him. 
The beetle soon, of sweet revenge in quest, 

Flew to the old, gnarl'd mountain oak 
Which proudly bore that haughty eagle's nest. 
And while the bird was gone, 
Her eggs, her cherish'd eggs, he broke, 
Not sparing one. 
Returning from her flight, the eagle's cry, 
Of rage and bitter anguish, fill'd the sky. 
But, by excess of passion blind, 
Her enemy she fail'd to find. 
Her wrath in vain, that year it was her fate 
To live a mourning mother, desolate. 
The next, she built a loftier nest ; 'twas vain ; 
The beetle found and dash'd her eggs again. 

John Rabbit's death was thus revenged anew. 
The second mourning for her murder'd brood 
Was such, that through the giant mountain wood, 
For six long months, the sleepless echo flew. 
The bird, once Ganymede, now made 
Her prayer to Jupiter for aid ; 
And, laying them within his godship's lap, 
She thought her eggs now safe from all mishap ; 
The god his own could not but make them — 
No wretch would venture there to break them. 
And no one did. Their enemy, this time, 
Upsoaring to a place sublime, 
Let fall upon his royal robes some dirt, 
Which Jove just shaking, with a sudden flirt, 



139 



10 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



[book ir. 



Threw out the eggs, no one knows whither. 
When Jupiter inform'd her how th' event 
Occurr'd by purest accident, 
The eagle raved ; there was no reasoning with her : 
She gave out threats of leaving court, 
To make the desert her resort, 
And other braveries of this sort. 
Poor Jupiter in silence heard 
The uproar of his favourite bird. 
Before his throne the beetle now appear'd, 
And by a clear complaint the mystery clear'd. 
The god pronouneed the eagle in the wrong. 
But still, their hatred was so old and strong, 
These enemies could not be reconciled ; 
And, that the general peace might not be spoil'd, — 
The best that he could do, — the god arranged, 
That thence the eagle's pairing should be changed, 
To come when beetle folks are only found 
Conceal'd and dormant under ground. 



IX.— THE LION AND TUE GNAT. 



Go, paltry insect, nature's meanest brat ! 
Thus said the royal lion to the gnat. 
The gnat declared immediate war. 
Think you, said he, your royal name 
To me worth caring for ? 
Think you I tremble at your power or fame ? 
The ox is bigger far than you ; 
Yet him I drive, and all his crew. 
This said, as one that did no fear owe, 

Himself he blew the battle charge, 
Himself both trumpeter and hero. 
At first he play'd about at large, 
Then on the lion's neck, at leisure, settled, 
And there the royal beast full sorely nettled. 
With foaming mouth, and flashing eye, 
He roars. All creatures hide or fly,— 
Such mortal terror at 
The work of one poor gnat ! 
With constant change of his attack, 
The snout now stinging, now the back, 
And now the chambers of the nose ; 
The pigmy fly no mercy shows. 
The lion's rage was at its height ; 
His viewless foe now laugh' d outright, 
When on his battle-ground he saw, 
That every savage tooth and claw 
Had got its proper beauty 
By doing bloody duty ; 
Himself, the hapless lion, tore his hide, 
And lash'd with sounding tail from side to side. 
Ah ! bootless blow, and bite, and curse ! 
He beat the harmless air, and worse ; 
For, though so fierce and stout, 
By effort wearied out, 
He fainted, fell, gave up the quarrel. 
The gnat retires with verdant laurel. 
Now rings his trumpet clang 
As at the charge it rang. 
But while his triumph note he blows, 
Straight on our valiant conqueror goes 
A spider's ambuscade to meet, 
And make its web his winding-sheet. 

We often have the most to fear 
From those we most despise ; 

Again, great risks a man may clear, 
Who by the smallest dies. 



X.— THE ASS LOADED WITH SPONGES, ANI 
THE ASS LOADED WITH SALT. 

A man, whom I shall call an ass-eteer, 
His sceptre like some Roman emperor bearing, 

Drove on two coursers of protracted ear, 
The one, with sponges laden, briskly faring ; 
The other lifting legs 
As if he trod on eggs, 
With constant need of goading, 
And bags of salt for loading. 
O'er hill and dale our merry pilgrims pass'd, 
Till, coming to a river's ford at last, 
They stopp'd quite puzzled on the shore. 
Our asseteer had cross'd the stream before ; 
So, on the lighter beast astride, 

He drives the other, spite of dread, 
Which, loath indeed to go ahead, 
Into a deep hole turns aside, 
And, facing right about, 
Where he went in, comes out ; 
For duckings two or three 
Had power the salt to melt, 
So that the creature felt 
His burden'd shoulders free. 
The sponger, like a sequent sheep, 
Pursuing through the water deep, 

Into the same hole plunges 
Himself, his rider, and the sponges. 
All three drank deeply : asseteer and ass 
For boon companions of their load might pass ; 
Which last became so sore a weight, 
The ass fell down, 
Belike to drown, 
His rider risking equal fate. 
A helper came, no matter who. 
The moral needs no more ado — - 
That all can't act alike, — 
The point I wish'd to strike. 



XL— THE LION AND THE RAT 

To show- to all your kindness, it behoves : 
There's none so small but you his aid may neecL 
I quote two fables for this weighty creed, 
Which either of them fully proves. 
From underneath the sward 
A rat, quite off his guard, 
Popp'd out between a lion's paws. 
The beast of royal bearing 
Show'd what a lion was 
The creature's life by sparing — 
A kindness well repaid ; 
For, little as you would have thought 
His majesty would ever need his aid, 
It proved full soon 
A precious boon. 
Forth issuing from his forest glen, 

T' explore the haunts of men, 

In lion net his majesty was caught, 

From which his strength and rage 

Served not to disengage. 

The rat ran up, with grateful glee, 

Gnaw'd off a rope, and set him free. 

By time and toil we sever 

What strength and rage could never. 



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THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



1] 



XII.— THE DOVE AND THE ANT. 

The same instruction we may get 
From another couple, smaller yet. 

A dove came to a brook to drink, 

When, leaning o'er its crumbling brink, 

An ant fell in, and vainly tried, 

In this to her an ocean tide, 

To reach the land ; whereat the dove, 

With every living thing in love, 

Was prompt a spire of grass to throw her, 

By which the ant regain' d the shore. 

A barefoot scamp, both mean and sly, 
Soon after chanced this dove to spy ; 
And, being arm'd with bow and arrow, 
The hungry codger doubted not 
The bird of Venus, in his pot, 
Would make a soup before the morrow. 
Just as his deadly bow he drew, 
Our pismire stung his heel. 
Roused by the villain's squeal, 
The dove took timely hint,'and flew 
Far from the rascal's coop ; — 
And with her flew his soup. 



XIII.— THE ASTROLOGER WHO STUMBLED 
— ' INTO A WELL. 

To an astrologer who fell 
Plump to the bottom of a well, 
Poor blockhead ! cried a passer-by, 
Not see your feet, and read the sky ? 

This upshot of a story will suffice 
To give a useful hint to most ; 
For few there are in this our world so wise 
As not to trust in star or ghost, 
Or cherish secretly the creed 
That men the book of destiny may read. 
This book, by Homer and his pupils sung, 
What is it, in plain common sense, 
But what was chance those ancient folks among, 
And with ourselves, God's providence ? 
Now chance doth bid defiance 
To every thing like science ; 
'Twere wrong, if not, 
To call it hazard, fortune, lot — 
Things palpably uncertain. 
But from the purposes divine, 
The deep of infinite design, 
Who boasts to lift the curtain ? 
Whom but himself doth God allow 
To read his bosom thoughts, and how ? 
Would he imprint upon the stars sublime 
The shrouded secrets of the night of time ? 
And all for what ? To exercise the wit 
Of those who on astrology have writ ? 
To help us shun inevitable ills ? 
To poison for us even pleasure's rills ? 
The choicest blessings to destroy, 
Exhausting, ere they come, their joy ? 
Such faith is worse than error — 'tis a crime. 
The sky-host moves and marks the course of time 
The sun sheds on our nicely-measured days 
The glory of his night-dispelling rays ; 



And all from this we can divine 
Is, that they need to rise and shine, — 
To roll the seasons, ripen fruits, 
And cheer the hearts of men and brutes. 
How tallies this revolving universe 
With human things, eternally diverse ? 
Ye horoscopers, waning quacks, 
Please turn on Europe's courts your backs, 
And, taking on your travelling lists 
The bellows-blowing alchemists, 
Budge off together to the land of mists. 
But I've digress'd. Return we now, bethinking 
Of our poor star-man, whom we left a drinking. 
Besides the folly of his lying trade, 
This man the type may well be made 
Of those who at chimeras stare 
When they should mind the things that are. 



XIV.— THE HARE AND THE FROGS. 

Once in his bed deep mused the hare, 
(What else but muse could he do there ?) 
And soon by gloom was much afflicted ; — 
To gloom the creature's much addicted. 
Alas ! these constitutions nervous, 
He cried, how wretchedly they serve us ! 
We timid people, by their action, 
Can't eat nor sleep with satisfaction ; 
We can't enjoy a pleasure single, 
But with some misery it must mingle. 
Myself, for one, am forced by cursed fear 
To sleep with open eye as well as ear. 
Correct yourself, says some adviser. 
Grows fear, by such advice, the wiser ? 
Indeed, I well enough descry 
That men have fear, as well as I. 
With such revolving thoughts our hare 
Kept watch in soul-consuming care. 
A passing shade, or leaflet's quiver 
Would give his blood a boiling fever. 
Full soon, his melancholy soul 
Aroused from dreaming doze 
By noise too slight for foes, 
He scuds in haste to reach his hole. 
He pass'd a pond ; and from its border bogs, 
Plunge after plunge, in leap'd the timid frogs, 
Aha ! I do to them, I see, 
He cried, what others do to me. 
The sight of even me, a hare, 
Sufficeth some, I find, to scare. 
And here, the terror of my tramp 
Hath put to rout, it seems, a camp. 
The trembling fools ! they take me for 
The very thunderbolt of war ! 
I see, the coward never skulk'd a foe 
That might not scare a coward still below. 



XV.— THE COCK AND THE FOX. 

Upon a tree there mounted guard 
A veteran cock, adroit and cunning, 
When to the roots a fox up running. 
Spoke thus, in tones of kind regard : — 
Our quarrel, brother, 's at an end ; 
Henceforth I hope to live your friend ; 
For peace now reigns 
Throughout the animal domains. 



141 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



[rook it. 



I bear the news : — come down, I pray, 
And give me the embrace fraternal ; 
And please, my brother, don't delay. 

So much the tidings do concern all, 
That I must spread them far to-day. 
Now you and yours can take your walks 
Without a fear or thought of hawks. 
And should you clash with them or others, 
In us you'll find the best of brothers ; — 
For which you may, this joyful night, 
Your merry bonfires light. 
But, first, let's seal the bliss 
With one fraternal kiss. 
Good friend, the cock replied, upon my word, 
A better thing I never heard ; 
And doubly I rejoice 
To hear it from your voice ; 
And, really there must be something in it, 
For yonder come two greyhounds, which I flatter 
Myself are couriers on this very matter. 

They come so fast, they'll be here in a minute. 
I'll down, and all of us will seal the blessing 
With general kissing and caressing. 
Adieu, said fox ; my errand 's pressing ; 
I'll hurry on my way, 
And we'll rejoice some other day. 
So off the fellow scamper'd, quick and light, 
To gain the fox-holes of a neighbouring height, 
Less happy in his stratagem than flight. 
The cock laugh'd sweetly in his sleeve ; — 
"Tis doubly sweet deceiver to deceive. 



XVI.— THE RAVEN WISHING TO IMITATE 
THE EAGLE. 

The bird of Jove bore off a mutton, 

A raven being witness. 
That weaker bird, but equal glutton, 
Not doubting of his fitness 
To do the same with ease, 
And bent his taste to please, 
Took round the flock his sweep, 
And mark'd among the sheep, 
The one of fairest flesh and size, 
A real sheep of sacrifice — 
A dainty titbit bestial, 
Reserved for mouth celestial. 
Our gormand, gloating round, 
Cried, Sheep, I wonder much 
Who could have made you such. 
You're far the fattest I have found ; 
I'll take you for my eating. 
And on the creature bleating 
He settled down. Now, sooth to say, 
This sheep would weigh 
More than a cheese ; 
And had a fleece 
Much like that matting famous 
Which graced the chin of Polyphemus ; 
So fast it clung to every claw, 
It was not easy to withdraw. 
The shepherd came, caught, caged, and, to their joy, 
Gave croaker to his children for a toy. 

Ill plays the pilferer, the bigger thief ; 
One's self one ought to know ; — in brief, 
Example is a dangerous lure ; 
Death strikes the gnat, where flies the Avasp secure. 



XVII.— THE PEACOCK COMPLAINING TO JUNO. 

The peacock to the queen of heaven 

Complain'd in some such words : — 
Great goddess, you have given 

To me, the laughing-stock of birds, 
A voice which fills, by taste quite just, 

All nature with disgust ; 
Whereas that little paltry thing, 

The nightingale, pours from her throat 

So sweet and ravishing a note, 
She bears alone the honours of the spring. 

In anger Juno heard, 
And cried, Shame on you, jealous bird ! 
Grudge you the nightingale her voice, 
Who in the rainbow neck rejoice, 
Than costliest silks more richly tinted, 
In charms of grace and form unstinted, — 

Who strut in kingly pride, 

Your glorious tail spread wide 
With brilliants which in sheen do 
Outshine the jeweller's bow window ? 

Is there a bird beneath the blue 
That has more charms than you \ 

No animal in everything can shine. 

By just partition of our gifts divine, 

Each has its full and proper share ; 

Among the birds that cleave the air, 
The hawk's a swift, the eagle is a brave on?, 
For omens serves the hoarse old raven, 
The rook 's of coming ills the prophet ; 

And if there 's any discontent, 
I've heard not of it. 

Cease, then, your envious complaint ; 
Or I, instead of making up your lack, 
Will take your boasted plumage from your baclc. 






XVIII.— THE CAT METAMORPHOSED INTO 
WOMAN. 

A bachelor caress'd his cat, 

A darling, fair, and delicate ; 

So deep in love, he thought her mew 

The sweetest voice he ever knew. 

By prayers, and tears, and magic art, 

The man got Fate to take his part ; 

And, lo ! one morning at his side 

His cat, transform'd, became his bride* 

In wedded state our man was seen 

The fool in courtship he had been. 

No lover e'er was so bewitch'd 

By any maiden's charms 
As was this husband, so enrich'd 

By hers within his arms. 
He praised her beauties, this and that, 
And saw there nothing of the cat. 

In short, by passion's aid, he 

Thought her a perfect lady. 

'Twas night : some carpet-gnawing mice 
Disturb'd the nuptial joys. 
Excited by the noise, 
The bride sprang at them in a trice 
The mice Avere scared and fled. 
The bride, scarce in her bed, 



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THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



13 



The gnawing heard, and sprang again, — 

And this time not in vain, 
For, in this novel form array' d, 
Of her the mice were less afraid. 
Through life she loved this mousing course, 
So great is stubborn nature's force. 

In mockery of change, the old 
Will keep their youthful bent. 

When once the cloth has got its fold, 
The smelling-pot its scent, 

In vain your efforts and your care 

To make them other than they are. 

To work reform, do what you will, 

Old habit will be habit still. 
Nor fork* nor strap can mend its manners, 
Nor cudgel-blows beat down its banners. 
Secure the doors against the renter, 
And through ihe windows it will enter. 



XIX.— THE LION AND THE ASS HUNTING. 

The king of animals, with royal grace, 

Would celebrate his birthday in the chase. 
'Twas not with bow and arrows 
To slay some wretched sparrows ; 

The lion hunts the wild boar of the wood, 

The antlered deer and stags, the fat and good. 
This time, the king, t' insure success, 
Took for his aide-de-camp an ass, 
A creature of stentorian voice, 
That felt much honour'd by the choice. 

The lion hid him in a proper station, 

And order'd him to bray, for his vocation, 
Assured that his tempestuous cry 
The boldest beasts would terrify, 
And cause them from their lairs to fly. 
And, sooth, the horrid noise the creature made 
Did strike the tenants of the wood with dread ; 
And, as they headlong fled, 

All fell within the lion's ambuscade. 
Has not my service glorious 
Made both of us victorious 1 
Cried out the much-elated ass. 

Yes, said the lion ; bravely bray'd ! 
Had I not known yourself and race, 

I should have been myself afraid ! 
If he had dared, the donkey 
Had shown himself right spunky 

At this retort, though justly made ; 
For who could suffer boasts to pass 
So ill-befittinsr to an ass \ 



XX.— THE WILL EXPLAINED BY .ESOP. 

If what old story says of iEsop 's true, 

The oracle of Greece he was, 
And more than Areopagus he knew, 

With all its wisdom in the laws. 

The following tale gives but a sample 

Of what has made his fame so ample. 

Three daughters shared a father's purse, 

Of habits totally diverse. 
The first, bewitch'd with drinks delicious ; 
The next, coquettish and capricious ; 
The third, supremely avaricious. 
* Naturam expellas furca, tainen usque recurret — Hor. 



The sire, expectant of his fate, 
Bequeathed his whole estate, 
In equal shares, to them, 
And to their mother just the same, — 
To her then payable, and not before, 
Each daughter should possess her part no more. 
The father died. The females three 
Were much in haste the will to see. 
They read and read, but still 
Saw not the willer's will. 
For could it well be understood 
That each of this sweet sisterhood, 
When she possess'd her part no more, 
Should to her mother pay it o'er ? 
'Twas surely not so easy saying 
How lack of means would help the paying. 
What meant their honour'd father, then % 
Th' affair was brought to legal men, 
Who, after turning o'er the case 
Some hundred thousand different ways, 
Threw down the learned bonnet, 
Unable to decide upon it ; 
And then advised the heirs, 
Without more thought, t' adjust affairs. 
As to the widow's share, the counsel say, 
We hold it just the daughters each should pay 
One third to her upon demand, 
Should she not choose to have it stand 
Commuted as a life annuity, 
Paid from her husband's death, with due congruity 
The thing thus order'd, the estate 
Is duly cut in portions three. 
And in the first they all agree 
To put the feasting-lodges, plate, 
Luxurious cooling mugs, 
Enormous liquor jugs, 
Rich cupboards, — built beneath the trellised vine,— 
The stores of ancient, sweet Malvoisian wine, 
The slaves to serve it at a sign ; 

In short, whatever, in a great house, 
There is of feasting apparatus. 
The second part is made 
Of what might help the jilting trade — 
The city house and furniture, 
Exquisite and genteel, be sure, 
The eunuchs, milliners, and laces, 
The jewels, shawls, and costly dresses. 
The third is made of household stuff, 
More vulgar, rude, and rough — 
Farms, fences, flocks, and fodder, 
And men and beasts to turn the sod o'er. 
This done, since it was thought 
To give the parts by lot 
Might suit, or it might not, 
Each paid her share of fees dear 
And took the part that pleased her. 
'Twas in great Athens town, 
Such judgment gave the gown. 
And there the public voice 
Applauded both the judgment and the choice. 
But ^Esop well was satisfied 
The learned men had set aside, 
In judging thus the testament, 
The very gist of its intent. 
The dead, quoth he, could he but know of it, 
Would heap reproaches on such Attic wit. 
What ! men who proudly take their place 
As sages of the human race, 
Lack they the simple skill 
To settle such a will ? 



143 



14 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



[book in- 



This said, he undertook himself 
'The task of portioning the pelf ; 
And straightway gave each maid the part 
The least according to her heart — 
The prim coquette, the drinking stuff, 

The drinker, then, the farms and cattle ; 
And on the miser, rude and rough, 
The robes and lace did ^Esop settle ; 
For thus, he said, an early date 
Would see the sisters alienate 
Their several shares of the estate. 
No motive now in maidenhood to tarry, 
They all would seek, post haste, to marry ; 
And, having each a splendid bait, 
Each soon would find a well-bred mate ; 
And, leaving thus their father's goods intact, 
Would to their mother pay them all, in fact, — 
Which of the testament 
Was plainly the intent. 
The people, who had thought a slave an ass, 
Much wonder' d how it came to pass 
That one alone should have more sense 
Than all their men of most pretence. 



BOOK III. 

I.— THE MILLER, HIS SON, AND THE ASS. 

TO M. DE MAUCROIX. 



Because the arts are plainly birthright matters, 
For fables we to ancient Greece are debtors ; 
But still this field could not be reap'd so clean 
As not to let us, later comers, glean. 
The fiction- world hath deserts yet to dare, 
And, daily, authors make discoveries there. 
I'd fain repeat one which our man of song, 
Old Malherbe, told one day to young Racan. 
Of Horace they the rivals and the heirs, 
Apollo's pets, — my masters, I should say, — 
Sole by themselves were met, I'm told, one day, 
Confiding each to each their thoughts and cares. 
Racan begins : — Pray end my inward strife, 
For Avell you know, my friend, what's what in life, 
Who through its varied course, from stage to stage, 
Have stored the full experience of age ; 
What shall I do ? 'Tis time I chose profession. 
You know my fortune, birth, and disposition. 
Ought I to make the country my resort, 
Or seek the army, or to rise at court ? 
There's nought but mixeth bitterness with charms ; 
War hath its pleasures ; hymen, its alarms. 
'Twere nothing hard to take my natural bent, — 
But I've a world of people to content. 
Content a world ! old Malherbe cries ; who can, sir ? 
Why, let me tell a story ere I answer. 

A miller and his son, I've somewhere read, 

The first in years, the other but a lad, — 

A fine, smart boy, however, I should say, — 

To sell their ass went to a fair one day. 

In order there to get the highest price, 

They needs must keep their donkey fresh and nice ; 

So, tying fast his feet, they swung him clear, 

And bore him hanging like a chandelier. 

Alas ! poor, simple-minded country fellows ! 

The first that sees their load, loud laughing, bellows, 



What farce is this to split good people's sides I 
The most an ass is not the one that rides ! 
The miller, much enlighten'd by this talk, 
Untied his precious beast, and made him walk. 
The ass, who liked the other mode of travel, 
Bray'd some complaint at trudging on the gravel ; 
Whereat, not understanding well the beast, 
The miller caused his hopeful son to ride, 
And walk'd behind, without a spark of pride. 
Three merchants pass'd, and, mightily displeased, 
The eldest of these gentlemen cried out, 
Ho there ! dismount, for shame, you lubber lout, 
Nor make a foot- boy of your grey-beard sire ; 
Change places, as the rights of age require. 
To please you, sirs, the miller said, I ought. 
So down the young and up the old man got. 
Three girls next passing, What a shame, says one, 
That boy should be obliged on foot to run, 
While that old chap, upon his ass astride, 
Should play the calf, and like a bishop ride ! 
Please save your wit, the miller made reply, 
Tough veal, my girls, the calf as old as I. 
But joke on joke repeated changed his mind ; 
So up he took, at last, his son behind. 
Not thirty yards ahead, another set 
Found fault. The biggest fools I ever met, 
Says one of them, such burdens to impose. 
The ass is faint, and dying with their blows. 
Is tins, indeed, the mercy which these rustics 
Show to their honest, faithful, old domestics ? 
If to the fair these lazy fellows ride, 
'Twill be to sell thereat the donkey's hide ! 
Zounds ! cried the miller, precious little brains 
Hath he who takes, to please the world, such pains ; 
But since we're in, we'll try what can be done. 
So off the ass they jump'd, himself and son, 
And, like a prelate, donkey march'd alone. 
Another man they met. These folks, said he, 
Enslave themselves to let their ass go free — 
The darling brute ! If I might be so bold, 
I'd counsel them to have him set in gold. 
Not so went Nicholas his Jane to woo, 
Who rode, we sing, his ass to save his shoe. 
Ass ! ass ! our man replied ; we're asses three ! 
I do avow myself an ass to be ; 
But since my sage advisers can't agree, 

Their words henceforth shall not be heeded : 
I'll suit myself. And he succeeded. 

For you, choose army, love, or court ; 
In town, or country, make resort ; 
Take wife, or cowl ; ride you, or walk ; 
Doubt not but tongues will have their talk. 



1L— THE MEMBERS AND THE BELLY 

Perhaps, had I but shown due loyalty, 
This book would have begun with royalty, 

Of which, in certain points of view, 

Boss* Belly is the image true, 
In whose bereavements all the members share ; 

Of whom the latter once so weary were, 

* A word probably more familiar to hod-carriers than to 
lexicographers ; qu. derived from the French bosseman, 
or the English boatswain, pronounced bos'n ? It denotes a 
'•master" of some practical "art." Master Belly, says 
Rabelais, was the first Master of Arts in the world.— Trans. 



144 



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THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



15 



As all due service to forbear, 
On what they called his idle plan 
Resolved to play the gentleman, 
And let his lordship live on air. 

Like burden-beasts, said they, 

We sweat from day to day ; 

And all for whom, and what I 

Ourselves we profit not. 
Our labour has no object but one, 
That is, to feed this lazy glutton. 

We'll learn the resting trade 

By his example's aid. 
So said, so done ; all labour ceased ; 
The hands refused to grasp, the arms to strike ; 

All other members did the like. 

Their boss might labour if he pleased ! 

It was an error which they soon repented, 

With pain of languid poverty acquainted. 

The heart no more the blood renew'd, 

And hence repair no more accrued 

To ever-wasting strength ; 

Whereby the mutineers, at length, 
Saw that the idle belly, in its way, 
Did more for common benefit than they. 

For royalty our fable makes, 

A thing that gives as well as takes. 

Its power all labour to sustain, 
Nor for themselves turns out their labour vain. 
It gives the artist bread, the merchant riches ; 
Maintains the diggers in their ditches ; 
Pays man of war and magistrate ; 

Supports the swarms in place, 

That live on sovereign grace ; 
In short, is caterer for the state. 

Menenius told the story well, 
When Rome, of old, in pieces fell, 
The commons parting from the senate. 
The ills, said they, that we complain at 
Are, that the honours, treasures, power, and dignity. 
Belong to them alone ; while we 
Get nought our labour for 
But tributes, taxes, and fatigues of war. 
Without the walls the people had their stand 
Prepared to march in search of other land, 
When by this noted fable 
Menenius was able 
To draw them, hungry, home 
To duty and to Rome*. 



III.— THE WOLF TURNED SHEPHERD. 

A wolf, whose gettings from the flocks 

Began to be but few, 
Bethought himself to play the fox 

In character quite new. 
A shepherd's hat and coat he took, 
A cudgel for a crook, 
Nor e'en the pipe forgot ; 
And more to seem what he was not, 
Himself upon his hat he wrote, 
I'm Willie, shepherd of these sheep. 

His person thus complete, 

* According to our republican notions of government, 
these people were somewhat imposed upon. Perhaps the 
fable finds a more appropriate application in the relation 
of employer to employed. I leave the fabulists and the 
political economists to settle the question between them. 

— TRANSLATOR. 



His crook in upraised feet, 
The impostor Willie stole upon the keep. 
The real Willie, on the grass asleep, 

Slept there, indeed, profoundly, 
His dog and pipe slept, also soundly ; 

His drowsy sheep around lay. 

As for the greatest number, 
Much bless'd the hypocrite their slumber, 
And hoped to drive away the flock, 
Could he the shepherd's voice but mock. 

He thought undoubtedly he could. 
He tried : the tone in which he spoke, 

Loud echoing from the wood, 

The plot and slumber broke ; 

Sheep, dog, and man awoke. 

The wolf, in sorry plight. 

In hampering coat bedight, 

Could neither run nor fight. 

There's always leakage of deceit 
Which makes it never safe to cheat. 
Whoever is a wolf had better 
Keep clear of hypocritic fetter. 



IV.— THE FROGS ASKING A KING. 

A certain commonwealth aquatic, 
Grown tired of order democratic, 
By clamouring in the ears of Jove, effected 
Its being to a monarch's power subjected. 
Jove flung it down, at first, a king pacific. 
Who nathless fell with such a splash terrific, 
The marshy folks, a foolish race and timid, 
Made breathless haste to get from him hid. 
They dived into the mud beneath the water, 
Or found among the reeds and rushes quarter. 
And long it was they dared not see 
The dreadful face of majesty, 
Supposing that some monstrous frog 
Had been sent down to rule the bog. 
The king was really a log, 
Whose gravity inspired with awe 

The first that, from his hiding-place? 
Forth venturing, astonish'd, saw 

The royal blockhead's face. 
With trembling and with fear, 
At last he drew quite near. 
Another follow'd, and another yet, 
Till quite a crowd at last were met ; 
Who, growing fast and strangely bolder, 
Perch' d soon upon the royal shoulder. 
His gracious majesty kept still, 
And let his people work their will. 
Clack, clack ! what din beset the ears of Jove ? 
We want a king, the people said, to move ! 

The god straight sent them down a crane, 
Who caught and slew them without measure. 
And gulp'd their carcasses at pleasure ; 

Whereat the frogs more wofully complain. 
What ! what ! great Jupiter replied ; 
By your desires must I be tied I 
Think you such government is bad ? 
You should have kept what first you had ; 
Which having blindly fail'd to do, 
It had been prudent still for you 
To let that former king suffice, 
More meek and mild, if not so wise. 
With this now make yourselves content, 
Lest for your sins a worse be sent. 



145 



16 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



[BOCK III. 



-THE FOX AND THE GOAT. 



A fox once joumey'd, and for company 
A certain bearded, horned goat had he ; 
Which goat no further than his nose could see. 
The fox was deeply versed in trickery. 
These travellers did thirst compel 
To seek the bottom of a well. 
There, having drunk enough for two, 
Says fox, My friend, what shall we do ? 
'Tis time that we were thinking 
Of something else than drinking. 
Raise you your feet upon the wall, 
And stick your horns up straight and tall ; 
Then up your back I'll climb with ease, 
And draw you after, if you please. 
Yes, by my beard, the other said, 
'Tis just the thing. I like a head 
Well stock'd with sense, like thine. 
Had it been left to mine, 
I do confess, 
I never should have thought of this. 
So Renard clamber'd out, 
And, leaving there the goat, 
Discharged his obligations 
By preaching thus on patience : — 
Had Heaven put sense thy head within, 
To match the beard upon thy chin, 
Thou wouldst have thought a bit, 
Before descending such a pit. 
I'm out of it ; good bye : 
With prudent effort try 
Yourself to extricate. 
For me, affairs of state 
Permit me not to wait. 

Whatever way you wend, 
Consider well the end. 



VI.- 



-TnE EAGLE, THE WILD SOW, AND 
THE CAT. 



A certain hollow tree 
Was tenanted by three. 
An eagle held a lofty bough, 
The hollow root a wild wood sow, 
A female cat between the two. 
Ail busy with maternal labours, 
They lived awhile obliging neighbours. 
At last the cat's deceitful tongue 
Broke up the peace of old and young. 
Up climbing to the eagle's nest, 
She said, with whisker'd lips compress'd, 
Our death, or, what as much we mothers fear, 
That of our helpless offspring dear, 

Is surely drawing near. 
Beneath our feet, see you not how 
Destruction's plotted by the sow ? 
Her constant digging, soon or late, 
Our proud old castle will uproot. 
And then — 0, sad and shocking fate ! — 
She'll eat our young ones as the fruit ! 
Were there but hope of saving one, 
: Twould soothe somewhat my bitter moan. 
Thus leaving apprehensions hideous, 
Down went the puss perfidious 
To where the sow, no longer digging, 
Was in the very act of pigging. 

Good friend and neighbour, whisper'd she 
I warn you on your guard to be. 



Your pigs should you but leave a minute, 
This eagle here will seize them in it. 
Speak not of this, I beg, at all, 
Lest on my head her wrath should 
Another breast with fear inspired, 
With fiendish joy the cat retired. 
The eagle ventured no egress 
To feed her youn?, the sow still less. 
Fools they, to think that any curse 
Than ghastly famine could be worse ! 
Both staid at home, resolved and obstinate, 
To save their young ones from impending fate, — 
The royal bird for fear of mine, 
For fear of royal claws the swine. 
All died, at length, with hunger, 
The older and the younger ; 
There staid, of eagle race or boar, 
Not one this side of death's dread dour ; — , 
A sad misfortune, which 
The wicked cats made rich. 
0, what is there of hellish plot 
The treacherous tongue dares not ! 
Of all the ills Pandora's box outpour'd, 
Deceit, I think, is most to be abhorr'd. 



VII.— THE DRUNKARD AND HIS WIFE. 

Each has his fault, to which he clings 

In spite of shame or fear. 
This apophthegm a story brings, 

To make its truth more clear. 
A sot had lost health, mind, and purse ; 

And, truly, for that matter, 

Sots mostly lose the latter 

Ere running half their course. 

When wine, one day, of wit had fill'd the room, 

His wife inclosed him in a spacious tomb. 

There did the fumes evaporate 

At leisure from his drowsy pate. 

When he awoke, he found 

His body wrapp'd around 
With grave-clothes, chill and damp, 
Beneath a dim sepulchral lam}). 
How 's this ? My wife a widow sad ? 
He cried, and I a ghost ? Dead ? dead ? 
Thereat his spouse, with snaky hair, 
And robes like those the Furies wear. 
With voice to fit the realms belcw, 

Brought boiling caudle to his bier — ■ 

For Lucifer the proper cheer ; 
By which her husband came to know — 
For he had heard of those three ladies — ■ 
Himself a citizen of Hades. 

What may your office be ? 

The phantom question'd he. 
I'm server up of Pluto's meat, 
And bring his guests the same to eat. 
Well, says the sot, not taking time to think, 
And don't you bring us anything to drink i 



Tin.— THE GOUT AND THE SPIDER. 

When Nature angrily turn'd out 
Those plagues, the spider and the gout, — 
See you, said she, those huts so meanly built, 
These palaces so grand and richly gilt ? 



146 



sook in.] THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 17 


By mutual agreement fix 
Your choice of dwellings ; or if not, 


Your fee ! replied the wolf, 


In accents rather gruff ; 


To end th' affair by lot, 


And is it not enough 


Draw out these little sticks. 


Your neck is safe from such a gulf ? 


The huts are not for me, the spider cried ; 


Go, for a wretch ingrate, 


And not for me the palace, cried the gout ; 


Nor tempt again your fate ! 


For there a sort of men she spied 




Call'd doctors, going in and out, 


i 


From whom she could not hope for ease. 




So hied her to the huts the fell disease, 


X.— THE LION BEATEN BY THE MAN. 


And, fastening on a poor man's toe, 





Hoped there to fatten on his woe, 


A picture once was shown, 


And torture him, fit after fit, 


In which one man, alone, 


Without a summons e'er to quit, 


Upon the ground had thrown 


From old Hippocrates. 


A lion fully grown. 


The spider, on the lofty ceiling, 


Much gloried at the sight the rabble. 


As if she had a life-lease feeling, 


A lion thus rebuked their babble : — 


Wove wide her cunning toils, 


That you have got the victory there, 


Soon rich with insect spoils. 


There is no contradiction. 


A maid destroy'd them as she swept the 


But, gentles, possibly you are 


room : 


The dupes of easy fiction: 


Bepair'd, again they felt the fatal broom. 


Had we the art of making pictures, 


The wretched creature, every day, 


Perhaps our champion had beat yours ! 


From house and home must pack away. 




At last, her courage giving out, 
She went to seek her sister gout, 






And in the field descried her, 


XL— THE FOX AND THE GRAPES. 


Quite starved : more evils did betide her 




Than e'er befel the poorest spider — 


A fox, almost with hunger dying, 


Her toiling host enslaved her so, 


Some grapes upon a trellis spying, 


And made her chop, and dig, and hoe ! 


To all appearance ripe, clad in 


(Says one, Kept brisk and busy, 


Their tempting russet skin, 


The gout is made half easy.) 


Most gladly would have eat them ; 


0, when, exclaim'd the sad disease, 


But since he could not get them, 


Will this my misery stop ? 


So far above his reach the vine, — 


0, sister spider, if you please, 


They 're sour, he said ; such grapes as these, 


Our places let us swop. 


The dogs may eat them if they please I 


The spider gladly heard, 




And took her at her word, — 


Did he not better than to whine ? 


And fiourish'd in the cabin-lodge, 




Not forced the tidy broom to dodge. 
The gout, selecting her abode 






With an ecclesiastic judge, 
Turn'd judge herself, and, by her code, 




XH.— THE SWAN AND THE COOK. 


He from his couch no more could budge. 
The salves and cataplasms Heaven knows, 
That mock'd the misery of his toes ; 
While aye, without a blush, the curse, 
Kept driving onward worse and worse. 

Needless to say, the sisterhood 

Thought their exchange both wise and good. 


The pleasures of a poultry yard 
Were by a swan and gosling shared. 
The swan was kept there for his looks, 
The thrifty gosling for the cooks ; 
The first the garden's pride, the latter 
A greater favourite on the platter. 
They swam the ditches, side by side, 




And oft in sports aquatic vied, 


, « 


Plunging, splashing far and wide, 




With rivalry ne'er satisfied. 




One day the cook, named Thirsty John, 


IX.— THE WOLF AND THE STORK. 


Sent for the gosling, took the swan, 





In haste his throat to cut, 


The wolves are prone to play the glutton. 


And put him in the pot. 


One, at a certain feast, 'tis said, 


The bird's complaint resounded 


So stuff'd himself with lamb and mutton, 


In glorious melody ; 


He seem'd but little short of dead. 


Whereat the cook, astounded 


Deep in his throat a bone stuck fast. 


His sad mistake to see, 


Well for this wolf, who could not speak, 


Cried, What ! make soup of a musician ! 


That soon a stork quite near him pass'd. 


Please God, I'll never set such dish on. 


By signs invited, with her beak 


No, no ; I'll never cut a throat 


The bone she drew 


That sings so sweet a note. 


With slight ado, 




And for this skilful surgery 


'Tis thus, whatever peril may alarm us, 


Demanded, modestly, her fee. 


Sweet words will never harm us. 



147 



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THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



[book III, 



XHL— THE WOLVES AND THE SHEEP. 

By-goxe a thousand years of war, 

The wearers of the fleece 

And wolves at last made peace ; 
Which both appear J d the better for ; 
For if the wolves had now and then 

Eat up a straggling ewe or wether, 
As often had the shepherd men 

Turn'd wolf-skins into leather. 
Fear always spoil'd the verdant herbage, 
And so it did the bloody carnage. 
Hence peace was sweet ; and, lest it should be riven, 
On both sides hostages were given. 
The sheep, as by the terms arranged, 
For pups of wolves their dogs exchanged ; 

Which being done above suspicion, 

Confirm'd and seal'd by high commission, 
What time the pups were fully grown, 
And felt an appetite for prey, 
And saw the sheepfold left alone, 

The shepherds all away, 
They seized the fattest lambs they could, 
And, choking, dragg'd them to the wood ; 
Of which, by secret means apprised, 
Their sires, as is surmised, 
Fell on the hostage guardians of the sheep, 
And slew them all asleep. 
So quick the deed of perfidy was done, 

There fled to tell the tale not one ! 

From which we may conclude 
That peace with villains will be rued. 
Peace in itself, 'tis true, 
May be a good for you ; 
But 'tis an evil, nathless, 
When enemies are faithless. 



XIV.— THE LION GROWN OLD. 



A lion, mourning, in his age, the wane 
Of might once dreaded through his wild domain, 
Was mock'd, at last, upon his throne, 
By subjects of his own, 
Strong through his weakness grown. 
The horse his head saluted with a kick ; 
The wolf snapp'd at his royal hide ; 
The ox, too, gored him in the side ; 
The unhappy lion, sad and sick, 
Could hardly growl, he was so weak. 

In uncomplaining, stoic pride, 
He waited for the hour of fate, 
Until the ass approach'd his gate ; 
Whereat, This is too much, he saith ; 
I willingly would yield my breath ; 
But, ah ! thy kick is double death ! 



XV.-PHLLOMEL AND PROGNE. 

From home and city spires, one day, 
The swallow Progne flew away, 
And sought the bosky dell 
Where sang poor Philomel. 



My sister, Progne said, how do you do ? 
"lis now a thousand years since you 
Have been conceal'd from human view ; 
I'm sure I have not seen your face 

Once since the times of Thrace. 
Pray, will you never quit this dull retreat ? 
Where could I find, said Philomel, so sweet ? 

What ! sweet % cried Progne — sweet to waste 

Such tones on beasts devoid of taste, 

Or on some rustic, at the most ! 

Should you by deserts be engross'd ? 

Come, be the city's pride and boast. 

Besides, the woods remind of harms 

That Tereus in them did your charms. 
Alas ! replied the bird of song, 
The thought of that so cruel wrong 
Makes me, from age to age, 
Prefer this hermitage ; 

For nothing like the sight of men 

Can call up what I suffer'd then. 



XVI.— THE WOMAN DROWNED. 

I hate that saying, old and savage, 
" 'Tis nothing but a woman drowning." 
That's much, I say. What grief more keen 
should have edge 
Than loss of her, of all our joys the crowning? 
Thus much suggests the fable I am borrowing. 
A woman perish'd in the water, 
Where, anxiously, and sorrowing, 
Her husband sought her, 
To ease the grief he could not cure, 
By honour'd rites of sepulture. 
It chanced that near the fatal spot, 
Along the stream which had 
Produced a death so sad, 
There walk'd some men that knew it not. 
The husband ask'd if they had seen 
His wife, or aught that hers had been. 
One promptly answer'd, No ! 
But search the stream below : 
It must haA-e borne her in its flow. 
No, said another ; search above. 

In that direction 
She would have floated, by the love 

Of contradiction. 
This joke was truly out of season ;— 
I don't propose to weigh its reason. 
But whether such propensity 

The sex's fault may be, 
Or not, one thing is very sure, 
Its own propensities endure. 
Up to the end they'll have their will, 
And, if it could be, further still. 



XVII.— THE WEASEL IN THE GRANARY. 

A weasel through a hole contrived to squeeze, 
(She was recovering from disease,) 
Which led her to a farmer's hoard. 
There lodged, her wasted form she cherish 'd; 
Heaven knows the lard and victuals stored 
That by her gnawing perish'd ! 
Of which the consequence 
Was sudden corpulence. 



148 



book iv.] THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 19 


A week or so was past, 


His threat as good as prophecy 


When having fully broken fast, 


Was proved by Mr. Mildandsly ; 


A noise she heard, and hurried 


For, putting on a mealy robe, 


To find the hole by which she came, 


He squatted in an open tub, 


And seem'd 'to find it not the same ; 


And held his purring and his breath ; — 


So round she ran, most sadly flurried ; 


Out came the vermin to their death. • 


And, coming back, thrust out her head, 


On this occasion, one old stager, 


Which, sticking there, she said, 


A rat as grey as any badger, 


This is the hole, there can't be blunder : 


Who had in battle lost his tail, 


What makes it now so small, I wonder, 


Abstained from smelling at the meal ; 


Where, but the other day, I pass'd with ease ? 


And cried, far off, Ah ! General Cat, 


A rat her trouble sees, 


I much suspect a heap like that ; 


And cries, But with an emptier belly ; 


Your meal is not the thing, perhaps, 


You enter' d lean, and lean must sally. 


For one who knows somewhat of traps : 


What I have said to you 


Should you a sack of meal become, 


Has eke been said to not a few, 


I'd let you be, and stay at home. 


Who, in a vast variety of cases, 




Have ventured into such-like places. 


Well said, I think, and prudently, 




By one who knew distrust to be 


— 


The parent of security. 


XVIII.— THE CAT AND THE OLD RAT. 




A story-writer of our sort 




Historifies, in short, 




Of one that may be reckon'd 


BOOK IV. 


A Rodilard the Second,^ 


The Alexander of the cats, 
The Attila, the scourge of rats, 


I— THE LION IN LOVE. 


Whose fierce and whisker'd head 


TO MADEMOISELLE DE Se'vIGNe'. 


Among the latter spread, 


, 


A league around, its dread ; 


Sevigne, type of every grace 


Who seem'd, indeed, determined 


In female form and face, 


The world should be unvermined. 


In your regardlessness of men, 


The planks with props more false than slim, 


Can you show favour when 


The tempting heaps of poison'd meal, 


The sportive fable craves your ear, 


The traps of wire and traps of steel, 


And see, unmoved by fear, 


Were only play compared with him. 


A lion's haughty heart 


At length, so sadly were they scared, 


Thrust through by Love's audacious dart ? 


The rats and mice no longer dared 


Strange conqueror, Love ! And happy he, 


To show their thievish faces 


And strangely privileged and free, 


Outside their hiding-places, 


Who only knows by story 


Thus shunning all pursuit ; whereat 


Him and his feats of glory ! 


Our crafty General Cat 


If on this subject you are wont 


Contrived to hang himself, as dead, 


To think the simple truth too blunt, 


Beside the wall with" downward head, 


The fabulous may less affront ; 


Resisting gravitation's laws 


Which now, inspired with gratitude, 


By clinging with his hinder claws 


Yea, kindled into zeal most fervent, 


To some small bit of string. 


Doth venture to intrude 


The rats esteem'd the thing 


Within your maiden solitude, 


A judgment for some naughty deed, 


And kneel, your humble servant. — 


Some thievish snatch, 


In times when animals were speakers, 


Or ugly scratch ; 


Among the quadrupedal seekers 


And thought their foe had got his meed 


Of our alliance 


By being hung indeed. 


There came the lions. 


With hope elated all 


And wherefore not ? for then 


Of laughing at his funeral, 


They yielded not to men 


They thrust their noses out in air ; 


In point of courage or of sense, 


And now to show their heads they dare ; 


Nor were in looks without pretence. 


Now dodging back, now venturing more ; . 


A high-born lion, on his way 


At last upon the larder's store 


Across a meadow, met one day 


They fall to filching, as of yore. 


A shepherdess, who charm'd him so, 


A scanty feast enjoy'd these shallows ; 


That, as such matters ought to go, 


Down dropp'd the hung one from his gallows, 


He sought the maiden for his bride. 


And of the hindmost caught. 


Her sire, it cannot be denied, 


Some other tricks to me are known, 


Had much preferr'd a son-in-law 


Said he, while tearing bone from bone, 


Of less terrific mouth and paw. 


By long experience taught ; 


It was not easy to decide — 


The point is settled, free from doubt, 


The lion might the gift abuse — 


That from your holes you shall come out. 


'Twas not quite prudent to refuse. 



149 



20 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



[book IV. 



And if refusal there should be, 
Perhaps a marriage one would see, 
Some morning, made clandestinely. 

For, over and above 
The fact that she could bear 
With none but males of martial air, 

The lady was in love 
With him of shaggy hair. 
Her sire, much wanting cover 
To send away the lover, 
Thus spoke : — My daughter, sir, 
Is delicate. I fear to her 

Your fond caressings 

Will prove rough blessings 

To banish all alarm 

About such sort of harm, 
Permit us to remove the cause, 
By filing off your teeth and claws. 
In such a case, your royal kiss 
Will be to her a safer bliss, 

And to yourself a sweeter ; 
Since she Avill more respond 
To those endearments fond 

With which you greet her. 
The lion gave consent at once, 
By love so great a dunce ! 
Without a tooth or claw now view him — 

A fort with cannon spiked. 
The dogs, let loose upon him, slew him, 
All biting safely where they liked. 

0, tyrant Love ! when held by you, 
We may to prudence bid adieu. 



That one should be content with his condition, 

And shut his ears to counsels of ambition, 

More faithless than the wreck -strown sea, and 

which 
Doth thousands beggar where it makes one 

rich, — 
Inspires the hope of wealth, in glorious forms, 
And blasts the same with piracy and storms. 



II.-THE SHEPHERD AND THE SEA. 

A shepherd, neighbour to the sea, 
Lived with his flock contentedly. 
His fortune, though but small, 
Was safe within his call. 
At last some stranded kegs of gold 
Him tempted, and his flock he sold, 
Turn'd merchant, and the ocean's waves 
Bore all his treasure — to its caves. 
Brought back to keeping sheep once more, 
But not chief shepherd, as before, 
When sheep were his tbat grazed the shore, 
He who, as Corydon or Thyrsis, 
Might once have shone in pastoral verses, 
Bedeck'd with rhyme and metre, 
Was nothing now but Peter. 
But time and toil redeem'd in full 
Those harmless creatures rich in wool ; 
And as the lulling winds, one day, 
The vessels wafted with a gentle motion, 
Want you, he cried, more money, Madam Ocean? 
Address yourself to some one else, I pray ; 
You shall not get it out of me ! 
I know too well your treachery. 

This tale 's no fiction, but a fact, 
Which, by experience back'd, 
Proves that a single penny, 

At present held, and certain, 
Is worth five times as many 

Of Hope's beyond the curtain ; 



III.— THE FLY AND THE ANT. 



A fly and ant, upon a sunny bank, 
Discuss' d the question of their rank. 

Jupiter ! the former said, 
Can love of self so turn the head, 

That one so mean and crawling, 

And of so low a calling, 
To boast equality shall dare 
With me, the daughter of the air ? 
In palaces I am a guest, 
And even at thy glorious feast. 
Whene'er the people that adore thee 

May immolate for thee a bullock, 
I'm sure to taste the meat before thee. 

Meanwhile this starveling, in her hillock, 
Is living on some bit of straw 
Which she has labour'd home to draw. 
But tell me now, my little thing, 
Do you camp ever on a king, 
An emperor, or lady ? 

1 do, and have full many a play-day 
On fairest bosom of the fair, 

And sport myself upon her hair. 
Come now, my hearty, rack your brain 
To make a case about your grain. 
Well, have you done ? replied the ant. 
You enter palaces, I grant, 
And for it get right soundly cursed. 

Of sacrifices, rich and fat, 
Your taste, quite likely, is the first ;— 

Are they the better off for that % 
You' enter with the holy train ; 
So enters many a wretch profane. 
On heads of kings and asses you may squat \ 
Deny your vaunting — I will not ; 
But well such impudence, I know, 
Provokes a sometimes fatal blow. 
The name in which your vanity delights 
Is own'd as well by parasites, 
And spies that die by ropes — as you soon will 
By famine or by ague-chill, 

When Phoebus goes to cheer 

The other hemisphere, — 
The very time to me most dear. 

Not forced abroad to go 

Through wind, and rain, and snow, 
My summer's work I then enjoy, 
And happily my mind employ, 
From care by care exempted. 
By which this truth I leave to you, 
That by two sorts of glory we are tempted, 

The false one and the true. 
Work waits, time flies ; adieu : — 

This gabble does not fill 

My granary or till. 



150 



J300K IV.] 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



21 



IV.— THE GARDENER AND HIS LORD. 

A lover of gardens, half cit and half clown, 

Possess'd a nice garden heside a small town ; 

And with it a field by a live hedge inclosed, 

Where sorrel and lettuce, at random disposed, 

A little of jasmine, and much of wild thyme, 
Grew gaily, and all in their prime 
To make up Miss Peggy's bouquet, 
The grace of her bright wedding day. 

For poaching in such a nice field — 'twas a shame ; 

A foraging, cud-chewing hare was to blame. 
Whereof the good owner bore down 
This tale to the lord of the town : — 

Some mischievous animal, morning and night, 

In spite of my caution, comes in for his bite. 

He laughs at my cunning-set dead-falls and 
snares ; 

For clubbing and stoning as little he cares. 

I think him a wizard. A wizard ! the coot ! 

I'd catch him if he were a devil to boot ! 

The lord said, in haste to have sport for his hounds, 

I'll clear him, I warrant you, out of your grounds ; 

To-morrow I'll do it without any fail. 

The thing thus agreed on, all hearty and hale, 
The lord and his party, at crack of the dawn, 
With hounds at their heels canter'd over the lawn. 
Arrived, said the lord in his jovial mood, 
We'll breakfast with you, if your chickens are good. 
That lass, my good man, I suppose is your daughter : 
No news of a son-in-law ? Any one sought her ? 
No doubt, by the score. Keep an eye on the docket, 
Eh ? Dost understand me ? I speak of the pocket. 
So saying, the daughter he graciously greeted, 
And close by his lordship he bade her be seated ; 
Avow'd himself pleased with so handsome a maid, 
And then with her kerchief familiarly play'd, — 
Impertinent freedoms the virtuous fair 
Repell'd with a modest and lady-like air, — 
So much that her father a little suspected 
The girl had already a lover elected. 
Mean while in the kitchen what bustling and cooking ! 
For what are your hams? They are very good looking. 
They're kept for your lordship. I takethem,said he ; 
Such elegant flitches are welcome to me. 
He breakfasted finely ; — his troop, with delight, — 
Dogs, horses, and grooms of the best appetite. 
Thus he govern'd his host in the shape of a guest, 
Unbottled his wine, and his daughter caress'd. 
To breakfast, the huddle of hunters succeeds, 
The yelping of dogs and the neighing of steeds, 
All cheering and fixing for wonderful deeds ; 
The horns and the bugles make thundering din ; 
Much wonders our gardener what it can mean. 
The worst is, his garden most wofully fares ; 
Adieu to its arbours, and borders, and squares ; 
Adieu to its succory, onions, and leeks ; 
Adieu to whatever good cookery seeks. 

Beneath a great cabbage the hare was in bed, 
Was started, and shot at, and hastily fled. 
Off went the wild chase, with a terrible screech, 
And not through a hole, but a horrible breach, 
Which some one had made, at the beck of the lord. 
Wide through the poor hedge ! 'T would havt been 

quite absurd 
Should loi'dship not freely from garden go out, 
On horseback, attended by rabble and rout. 



Scarce suffer'd the gard'ner his patience to wince, 
Consoling himself— 'T was the sport of a prince ; 
While bipeds and quadrupeds served to devour, 
And trample, and waste, in the space of an hour, 
Far more than a nation of foraging hares 
Could possibly do in a hundred of years. 

Small princes, this story is true. 

When told in relation to you. 
In settling your quarrels with kings for your toois, 
You prove yourselves losers and eminent fools. 



V.— THE ASS AND THE LITTLE DOG. 

One's native talent from its course 

Cannot be turned aside by force ; 

But poorly apes the country clown 

The polish'd manners of the town. 

Their Maker chooses but a few 

With power of pleasing to imbue ; 

Where wisely leave it we, the mass, 

Unlike a certain fabled ass, 
That thought to gain his master's blessing 
By jumping on him and caressing. 

What ! said the donkey in his heart ; 

Ought it to be that puppy's part 
To lead his useless life 

In full companionship 
With master and his wife, 

While I must bear the whip ? 

What doth the cur a kiss to draw 1 

Forsooth, he only gives his paw ! 

If that is all there needs to please, 

I'll do the thing myself, with ease. 
Possess'd with this bright notion, — ■ 

His master sitting on his chair, 

At leisure in the open air, — 

He ambled up, with awkward motion, 

And put his talents to the proof ; 

Upraised his bruised and batter'd hoof, 

And, with an amiable mien, 

His master patted on the chin, 

The action gracing with a word — 

The fondest bray that e'er was heard ! 

O, such caressing was there ever ? 

Or melody with such a quaver ? 
Ho ! Martin ! here ! a club, a club bring ! 

Out cried the master, sore offended. 
So Martin gave the ass a drubbing, — 

And so the comedy was ended. 



VL-THE BATTLE OF THE RATS AND THE 
WEASELS. 

The weasels live, no more than cats, 
On terms of friendship with the rats ; 
And, were it not that these 
Through doors contrive to squeeze 
Too narrow for their foes, 
The animals long-snouted 
Would long ago have routed, 
And from the planet scouted 
Their race, as I suppose. 

One year it did betide, 
When they were multiplied, 
An army took the field 
Of rats, with spear and shield, 



151 



22 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



[book IV 



Whose crowded ranks led on 
A king named Ratapon. 

The weasels, too, their banner 

UnfuiTd in warlike manner. 
As Fame her trumpet sounds, 

The victory balanced well ; 
Enrich' d were fallow grounds 

Where slaughter'd legions fell ; 
But by said trollop's tattle, 
The loss of life in battle 
Thinn'd most the rattish race 
In almost every place ; 
And finally their rout 
Was total, spite of stout 
Artarpax and Psicarpax, 
And valiant Meridarpax*, 
Who, cover'd o'er with dust, 
Long time sustained their host 
Down sinking on the plain. 
Their efforts were in vain ; 
Fate ruled that Haai hour, 
(Inexorable power !) 
And so the captains fled 
As well as those they led ; 
The princes perish 1 d all. 
The undistinguish'd small 
In certain holes found shelter, 
In crowding, helter-skelter ; 
But the nobility 
Could not go in so free, 
Who proudly had assumed 
Each one a helmet plumed ; 
We know not, truly, whether 
For honour's sake the feather, 
Or foes to strike with terror ; 
But, truly, 'twas then* error. 
Nor hole, nor crack, nor crevice 

Will let their head-gear in ; 
While meaner rats in bevies 

An easy passage win ; — 
So that the shafts of fate 
Do chiefly hit the great. 

A feather in the cap 
Is oft a great mishap. 
An equipage too grand 
Comes often to a stand 
Within a narrow place. 
The small, whate'er the case, 
With ease slip through a strait, 
Where larger folks must wait. 



VII.— THE MONKEY AND THE DOLPHIN. 

It was a custom of the Greeks 

For passengers o'er sea to carry 
Both monkeys full of tricks 

And funny dogs to make them merry. 
A ship, that had such things on deck, 
Not far from Athens, went to wreck. 
But for the dolphins, all had drown' d. 

They are a philanthropic fish, 
Which fact in Pliny may be found ; — 

A better voucher who could wish ? 
They did their best on this occasion. 

A monkey even, on their plan 

* Names of rats, invented by Homer. 



Well nigh attain'd his own salvation ; 

A dolphin took him for a man, 
And on his dorsal gave him place. 
So grave the silly creature's face, 
That one might well have set him down 
That old musician of renown*. 
The fish had almost reach'd the land, 

When, as it happen'd, — what a pity ! — 
He ask'd, Are you from Athens grand l 

Yes ; well they know me in that city. 
If ever you have business there, 

I'll help you do it, for my kki 

The highest offices are in. 
My cousin, sir, is now lord mayor. 
The dolphin thank' d him, with good grace, 
Both for himself and all his race, 
And ask'd, You doubtless know Piraeus, 
Where, should we come to town, you'll see us 
Piraeus ? yes, indeed I know ; 
He was my crony long ago. 
The dunce knew not the harbour's name, 
And for a man's mistook the same. 

The people are by no means few, 
Y/ho never went ten miles from home, 
Nor know their market-town from Rome, 

Yet cackle just as if they knew. 
The dolphin laugh'd, and then began 
His rider's form and face to scan, 
And found himself about to save 
From fishy feasts, beneath the wave, 
A mere resemblance of a man. 
So, plunging down, he turn'd to find 
Some drowninsr wisrht of human kind. 



VIH.— THE MAN AND THE WOODEN GOD. 

A pagan kept a god of wood, — 

A sort that never hears, 

Though furnish'd well with ears, — 
From which he hoped for wondrous good. 
The idol cost the board of three ; 

So much enrich'd was he 

With vows and offerings vain, 
With bullocks garlanded and slain : 

No idol ever had, as that, 

A kitchen quite so full and fat. 
But all this worship at his shrine 
Brought not from this same block divine 
Inheritance, or hidden mine, 

Or luck at play, or any favour. 

Nay, more, if any storm whatever 
Brew'd. trouble here or there, 
The man was sure to have his share, 

And suffer in his purse, 
Although the gcd fared none the worse. 
At last, by sheer impatience bold, 
The man a crowbar seizes, 
His idol breaks in pieces, 
And finds it richly stuff 'd with gold. 
How 's this ? Have I devoutly treated, 
Says he, your godship, to be cheated? 
Now leave my house, and go your way, 
And search for altars where you may. 
You're like those natures, dull and gross, 
From which comes nothing but by blows. 
The more I gave, the less I got ; 
I'll now be rich, and y ou may rot. 

* Arion. 



152 



book iv.] THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 23 




One day he would recount with glee 


IX.— THE JAY IN THE FEATHERS OF THE 


To his assembled progeny 


PEACOCK. 


The various beauties of these places, 





The customs of the various races, 


A peacock moulted : soon a jay was seen 


And laws that sway the realms aquatic, 


Bedeck' d with Argus tail of gold and green, 


(She did not mean the hydrostatic !) 


High strutting, with elated crest, 


One thing alone the rat perplex'd, — 


As much a peacock as the rest. 


He was but moderate as a swimmer. 


His trick was recognised and bruited, 


The frog this matter nicely fix'd 


His person jeer'd at, hiss'd, and hooted. 


By kindly lending him her 


The peacock gentry flock' d together, 


Long paw, which with a rush she tied 


And pluck'd the fool of every feather. 


To his ; and off they started, side by side. 
Arrived upon the lakelet's brink, 


Nay more, when back he sneak' d to join his race, 


They shut their portals in his face. 


There was but little time to think. 




The frog leap'd in, and almost brought her 


There is another sort of jay, 


Bound guest to land beneath the water. 


The number of its legs the same, 


Perfidious breach of law and right ! 


Which makes of borrow'd plumes display, 


She meant to have a supper warm 


And plagiary is its name. 


Out of his sleek and dainty form. 


But hush ! the tribe I'll not offend ; 


Already did her appetite 


'Tis not my work their ways to mend. 


Dwell on the morsel with delight. 




The gods, in anguish, he invokes ; 




His faithless hostess rudely mocks ; 


© 




He struggles up, she struggles down. 


X.-THE CAMEL AND THE FLOATING STICKS. 


A kite, that hovers in the air, 





Inspecting everything with care, 


The first who saw the humpback' d camel 


Now spies the rat belike to drown, 


Fled off for life ; the next approach'd with care ; 


And, with a rapid wing, 


The third with tyrant rope did boldly dare 


Upbears the wretched thing, 


The desert wanderer to trammel. 


The frog, too, dangling by the string '. 


Such is the power of use to change 


The joy of such a double haul 


The face of objects new and strange ; 


Was to the hungry kite not small. 


Which grow, by looking at, so tame, 


It gave him all that he couid wish— 


They do not even seem the same. 


A double meal of flesh and fish. 


And since this theme is up for our attention, 




A certain watchman I will mention, 


The best contrived deceit 


Who, seeing something far 


Can hurt its own contriver, 


Away upon the ocean, 


And perfidy doth often cheat 


Could not but speak his notion 


Its author's purse of every stiver. 


That 'twas a ship of war. 




Some minutes more had past, — 


— * — • 


A bomb-ketch 'twas without a sail, 




And then a boat, and then a bale, 


XH.-THE ANIMALS SENDING TRIBUTE TO 


And floating sticks of wood at last ! 


ALEXANDER. 


Full many things on earth, I wot, 


A fable flourish 'd with antiquity 


Will claim this tale, — and well they may ; 


Whose meaning I could never clearly see. 


They're something dreadful far away, 


Kind reader, draw the moral if you're able : 


But near at hand — they're not. 


I give you here the naked fable. 




Fame having bruited that a great commander, 




A son of Jove, a certain Alexander, 






Resolved to leave nought free on this our ball, 


XI— THE FROG AND THE RAT. 


Had to his footstool gravely summon'd all 





Men, quadrupeds, and nullipeds, together 


They to bamboozle are inclined, 


With all the bird-republics, every feather, — 


Saith Merlin, who bamboozled are. 


The goddess of the hundred mouths, I say, 


The word, though rather unrefined, 


Thus having spread dismay, 


Has yet an energy we ill can spare ; 


By widely publishing abroad 


So by its aid I introduce my tale. 


This mandate of the demigod, 


A well-fed rat, rotund and hale, 


The animals, and all that do obey 


Not knowing either Fast or Lent, 


Their appetite alone, mistrusted now 


Disporting round a frog-pond went. 


That to another sceptre they must bow. 


A frog approach'd, and, with a friendly greeting, 


Far in the desert met their various races, 


Invited him to see her at her home, 


All gathering from their hiding-places. 


And pledged a dinner worth his eating, — 


Discuss'd was many a notion. 


To which the rat was nothing loath to come. 


At last, it was resolved, on motion, 


Of words persuasive there was little need : 


To pacify the conquering banner, 


She spoke, however, of a grateful bath ; 


By sending homage in, and tribute. 


Of sports and curious wonders on their path ; 


With both the homage and its manner 


Of rarities of flower, and rush, and reed : 


They charged the monkey, as a glib brute ; 



N 2 



24 



THE CABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



[book IV. 



And, lest the chap should too much chatter, 
In black on white they wrote the matter. 
Nought but the tribute served to fash, 
As that must needs be paid in cash. 
A prince, who chanced a mine to own, 
At last, obliged them with a loan. 
The mule and ass, to bear the treasure, 
Their service tender'd, full of pleasure ; 
And then the caravan was none the worse, 
Assisted by the camel and the horse. 
Forthwith proceeded all the four 
Behind the new ambassador, 
And saw, erelong, within a narrow place, 
Monseigneur Lion's quite unwelcome face. 
Well met, and all in time, said he ; 
Myself your fellow traveller will be. 
I went my tribute by itself to bear ; 
And though 'tis light, I well might spare 

The unaccustom'd load. 
Take each a quarter, if you please, 
And I will guard you on the road ; 

More free and at my ease — 
In better plight, you understand, 
To fight with any robber band. 
A lion to refuse, the fact is, 
Is not a very usual practice : 
So in he comes, for better and for worse ; 
Whatever he demands is done, 
And, spite of Jove's heroic son, 
He fattens freely from the public purse. 
While wending on their way, 
They found a spot one day, 
With waters hemm'd, of crystal sheen ; 
Its carpet, flower-besprinkled green ; 

Where pastured at their ease 
Both flocks of sheep and dainty heifers, 

And play'd the cooling breeze — 
The native land of all the zephyrs. 

No sooner is the lion there 
Than of some sickness he complains. 
Says he, You on your mission fare. 
A fever, with its thirst and pains, 
Di'ies up my blood, and bakes my brains ; 
And I must search some herb, 
Its fatal power to curb. 
For you, there is no time to waste ; 
Pay me my money, and make haste. 
The treasures were unbound, 
And placed upon the ground. 
Then, with a look which testified 
His royal joy, the lion cried, 
| My coins, good heavens, have multiplied ! 
And see the young ones of the gold 
As big already as the old ! 
The increase belongs to me, no doubt ; 
And eagerly he took it out ! 

'Twas little staid beneath the lid ; 
The wonder was that any did. 
Confounded were the monkey and his suite. 
j And, dumb with fear, betook them to their way, 
And bore complaint to Jove's great son, they say- 
Complaint without a reason meet ; 
For what could he ? Though a celestial scion, 
He could but fight, as lion versus lion. 

When corsairs battle, Turk with Turk, 
They're not about their proper work. 



XIII.— THE HORSE WISHING TO BE REVENGED 
UPON THE STAG. 

The horses have not always been 
The humble slaves of men. 
When, in the far-off past, 
The fare of gentlemen was mast, 
And even hats were never felt, 
Horse, ass, and mule in forests dwelt. 
Nor saw one then, as in these ages, 

So many saddles, housings, pillions ; 
Such splendid equipages, 
With golden-lace postilions ; 
Such harnesses for cattle, 
To be consumed in battle ; 
As one saw not so many feasts, 
And people married by the priests. 
The horse fell out, within that space, 

With the antler' d stag, so fleetly made : 
He could not catch him in a race, 
And so he came to man for aid. 
Man first his suppliant bitted ; 
Then, on his back well seated, 
Gave chase with spear, and rested not 
Till to the ground the foe he brought. 
This done, the honest horse, quite blindly, 
Thus thauk'd his benefactor kindly : — 
Dear sir, I'm much obliged to you ; 
I'll back to savage life. Adieu ! 
O, no, the man replied ; 
You'd better here abide ; 
I know too well your use. 
Here, free from all abuse, 
Remain a liege to me, 
And large your provender shall be. 
Alas ! good housing or good cheer, 
That costs one's liberty, is dear. 
The horse his folly now perceived, 
But quite too late he grieved. 
No grief his fate could alter ; 
His stall was built, and there he lived, 
And died there in his halter. 
Ah ! wise had he one small offence forgot ! 
Revenge, however sweet, is dearly bought 
By that one good, which gone, all else is nought. 



XIV.-THE FOX AND THE BUST. 

The great are like the maskers of the stage ; 
Their show deceives the simple of the age. 
For all that they appear to be they pass, 
With only those whose type 's the ass. 
The fox, more wary, looks beneath the skin, 
And looks on every side, and, when he sees 

That all their glory is a semblance thin, 
He turns, and saves the hinges of his knees, 
With such a speech as once, 'tis said, 
He utter'd to a hero's head. 
A bust, somewhat colossal in its size, 
Attracted crowds of wondering eyes. 
The fox admired the sculptor's pains : 
Fine head, said he, but void of brains ! 
The same remark to many a lord applies. 



154 



BOOK IV.] 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



25 



XV.— THE WOLF, THE GOAT, AND THE KID. 

As went the goat her pendent dugs to fill, 
And browse the herbage of a distant hill, 
She latch'd her door, and bid, 
With matron care, her kid ; — 
My daughter, as you live, 
This portal don't undo 
To any creature who 
This watchword does not give : 
" Deuce take the wolf and all his race ! '' 
The wolf was passing near the place 
By chance, and heard the words with pleasure, 
And laid them up as useful treasure ; 
And hardly need we mention, 
Escaped the goat's attention. 
No sooner did he see 
The matron off, than he, 
With hypocritic tone and face, 
Cried out before the place, 
" Deuce take the wolf and all his race ! " 
Not doubting thus to gain admission, 
The kid, not void of all suspicion, 
Peer'd through a crack, and cried, 
Show me white paw before 
You ask me to undo the door. 
The wolf could not, if he had died, 
For wolves have no connexion 
With paws of that complexion. 
So, much surprised, our gormandiser 
Retired to fast till he was wiser. 
How would the kid have been undone. 
Had she but trusted to the word 
The wolf by chance had overheard ! 
Two sureties better are than one ; 
And caution 's worth its cost, 
Though sometimes seeming lost. 



XVI.. 



-THE WOLF, THE MOTHER, AND HER 
CHILD. 



This wolf another brings to mind, 
Who found dame Fortune more unkind, 

In that the greedy, pirate sinner, 

Was balk'd of life as well as dinner. 
As saith our tale, a villager 

Dwelt in a by, unguarded place ; 
There, hungry, watch' d our pillager 

For luck and chance to mend his case. 
For there his thievish eyes had seen 
All sorts of game go out and in — 
Nice sucking calves, and lambs and sheep ; 

And turkeys by the regiment, 

With steps so proud, and necks so bent, 
They'd make a daintier glutton weep. 
The thief at length began to tire 
Of being gnaw'd by vain desire. 
Just then a child set up a cry : 
Be still, the mother said, or I 
Will throw you to the wolf, you brat ! 
Ha, ha ! thought he, what talk is that ! 
The gods be thank'd for luck so good ! 
And ready at the door he stood, 
When soothingly the mother said, 

Now cry no more, my little dear ; 

That naughty wolf, if he comes here, 
Your dear papa shall kill him dead. 



Humph ! cried the veteran mutton-eater. 

Now this, now that ! Now hot, now cool ! 
Is this the way they change their metre ? 

And do they take me for a fool \ 
Some day, a nutting in the wood, 
That young one yet shall be my food. 
But little time has he to dote 

On such a feast ; the dogs rush out 
And seize the caitiff by the throat ; 

And country ditchers, thick and stout, 
With rustic spears and forks of iron, 
The hapless animal environ. 
What brought you here, old head? cried one. 

He told it all, as I have done, 
Why, bless my soul ! the frantic mother said, — 

You, villain, eat my little son ! 
And did I nurse the darling boy, 
Your fiendish appetite to cloy ? 
With that they knock' d him on the head. 
His feet and scalp they bore to town, 

To grace the seigneur's hall, 

Where, pinn'd against the wall, 
This verse completed his renown : — 
" Ye honest wolves, believe not all 
That mothers say, when children squall ! " 



XVIL— THE WORDS OF SOCRATES. 

A house was built by Socrates 
That failed the public taste to please. 

Some blamed the inside ; some, the out ; and all 
Agreed that the apartments were too small. 

Such rooms for him, the greatest sage of Greece ! 
I ask, said he, no greater bliss 
Than real friends to fill e'en this. 
And reason had good Socrates 
To think his house too large for these. 
A crowd to be your friends will claim, 

Till some unhandsome test you bring. 

There's nothing plentier than the name ; 

There's nothing rarer than the thing. 



XVIIL— THE OLD MAN AND HIS SONS. 

All power is feeble with dissension : 
For this I quote the Phrygian slave. 

If aught I add to his invention, 
Tt is our manners to engrave, 

And not from any envious wishes ; — 

I'm not so foolishly ambitious. 

Phsedrus enriches oft his story, 

In quest — I doubt it not — of glory ! 

Such thoughts were idle in my breast. 
An aged man, near going to his rest, 
His gather'd sons thus solemnly address'd : — 
To break this bunch of arrows you may try ; 
And, first, the string that binds them 1 untie. 
The elders, having tried with might and main, 

Exclaim'd, This bundle I resign 

To muscles sturdier than mine. 
The second tried, and bow'd himself in vain. 
The youngest took them with the like success. 
All were obliged their weakness to confess. 
Unharm'd the arrows pass'd from son to son ; 
Of all they did not break a single one. 
Weak fellows ! said their sire, I now must show 
What in the case my feeble strength can do. 



155 



26 THE FABLES Q£ 


1 
LA FONTAINE. [book iv 


They laugh'd, and thought their father but in joke, 


Old iEsop's man of hidden treasure 


Till, one by one, they saw the arrows broke. 


May serve the case to demonstrate. 


See concord's power ! replied the sire ; as long 


He had a great estate, 


As you in love agree, you will be strong. 


But chose a second life to wait 


I go, my sons, to join our fathers good ; 


Ere he began to taste his pleasure. 


Now promise me to live as brothers should, 


This man, whom gold so little bless'd, 


And soothe by this your dying father's fears. 


Was not possessor, but possess'd. 


Each strictly promised with a flood of tears. 


His cash he buried under ground, 


Their father took them by the hand, and died ; 


Where only might his heart be found ; 


And soon the virtue of their vows was tried. 


It being, then, his sole delight 


Their sire had left a large estate 


To ponder of it day and night, 


Involved in lawsuits intricate ; 


And consecrate his rusty pelf, 


Here seized a creditor, and there 


A sacred offering, to himself. 


A neighbour levied for a share. 


In all his eating, drinking, travel, 


At first the trio nobly bore 


Most wondrous short of funds he seem'd ; 


The brunt of all this legal war. 


One would have thought he little dream'd 


But short their friendship as 'twas rare. 


Where lay such sums beneath the gravel. 


Whom blood had join'd — and small the wonder! — 


A ditcher mark'd his coming to the spot, 


The force of interest drove asunder ; 


So frequent was it, 


And, as is wont in such affairs, 


And thus at last some little inkling got 


Ambition, envy, were coheirs. 


Of the deposit. 


In parcelling their sire's estate, 


He took it all, and babbled not. 


They quarrel, quibble, litigate, 


One morning, ere the dawn, 


Each aiming to supplant the other. 


Forth had our miser gone 


The judge, by turus, condemns each brother. 


To worship what he loved the best, 


Their creditors make new assault, 


When, lo ! he found an empty nest ! 


Some pleading error, some default. 


Alas ! what groaning, Availing, crying ! 


The sunder' d brothers disagree ; 


What deep and bitter sighing ! 


For counsel one, have counsels three. 


His torment makes him tear 


All lose their wealth ; and now their sorrows 


Out by the roots his hair. 


Bring fresh to mind those broken arrows. 


A passenger demandeth why 




Such marvellous outcry. 


— <> — ■ 


They've got my gold ! it's gone — it's gone ! 




Your gold ! pray where % — Beneath this stone. 


XIX.-THE ORACLE AND THE ATHEIST. 


Why, man, is this a time of war, 





That you should bring your gold so far ? 


That man his Maker can deceive, 


You'd better kept it in your drawer ; 


Is monstrous folly to believe. 


And I'll be bound, if once but in it, 


The labyrinthine mazes of the heart 


You could have got it any minute. 


Are open to His eyes in every part. 


At any minute ! Ah, Heaven knows 


Whatever one may do, or think, or feel, 


That cash comes harder than it goes ! 


From Him no darkness can the thing conceal. 


I touch'd it not. — Then have the grace 


A pagan once, of graceless heart and hollow, 


To explain to me that rueful face, 


Whose faith in gods, I'm apprehensive, 


Replied the man ; for, if 'tis true 


Was quite as real as expensive, 


You touch'd it not, how plain the case, 


Consulted, at his shrine, the god Apollo. 


That, put the stone back in its place, 


Is what I hold alive, or not ? 


And all will be as well for you ! 


Said he, — a sparrow having brought, 




Prepared to wring its neck, or let it fly, 
As need might be, to give the god the lie. 






Apollo saw the trick, 




And answer'd quick, 
Dead or alive, show me your sparrow, 


XXI.— THE EYE OF THE MASTER. 


And cease to set for me a trap 




Which can but cause yourself mishap. 


A stag took refuge from the chase 


I see afar, and far I shoot my arrow. 


Among the oxen of a stable, 




Who counsel'd him, as saith the fable, 




To seek at once some safer place. 






My brothers, said the fugitive, 


XX.-THE MISER WHO HAD LOST HIS 


Betray me not, and, as I live, 


TREASURE. 


The richest pasture I will show, 




That e'er was grazed on, high or low ; 


'Tis use that constitutes possession. 


Your kindness you will not regret, 


I ask that sort of men, whose passion 


For well some day I'll pay the debt. 


It is to get and never spend, 


The oxen promised seci'ecy. 


Of all their toil what is the end ; 


Down crouch'd the stag, and breathed more free. 


What they enjoy of all their labours 


At eventide they brought fresh hay, 


Which do not equally their neighbours % 


As was their custom day by day ; 


Throughout this upper mortal strife, 


And often came the servants near, 


The miser leads a beggar's life. 


As did indeed the overseer, 



156 



BOOK V.] 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



27 



But with so little thought or care, 

That neither horns, nor hide, nor hair 

Reveal'd to them the stag was there. 
Already thank'd the wild-wood stranger 

The oxen for their treatment kind, 

And there to wait made up his mind, 
Till he might issue free from danger. 
Replied an ox that chew'd the cud, 
Your case looks fairly hi the bud ; 
But then I fear the reason why 
Is, that the man of sharpest eye 
Hath not yet come his look to take. 
I dread his coming, for your sake ; 
Your boasting may be premature : 
Till then, poor stag, you're not secure. 
'Twas but a little while before 
The careful master oped the door. 

How's this, my boys ? said he ; 
These empty racks will never do. 
Go, change this dirty litter too. 

More care than this I want to see 

Of oxen that belong to me. 
Well, Jim, my boy, you're young and stout ; 
What would it cost to clear these cobwebs out ? 
And put these yokes, and names, and traces, 
All as they should be, in their places ? 
Thus looking round, he came to see 
One head he did not usually. 

The stag is found ; his foes 

Deal heavily their blows. 

Down sinks he in the strife ; 

No tears can save his life. 
They slay, and dress, and salt the beast, 
And cook his flesh in many a feast, 
And many a neighbour gets a taste. 

As Phsedrus says it, pithily, 

The master's is the eye to see : — 

I add the lover's, as for me. 



XXII.— THE LARK AND HER YOUNG ONES WITH 
THE OWNER OF A FIELD. 



" Depend upon yourself alone," 

Has to a common proverb grown. 
'Tis thus confirm'd in iEsop's way : — 
The larks to build their nests are seen 
Among the wheat-crops young and green ; 

That is to say, 
What time all things, dame Nature heeding, 
Betake themselves to love and breeding — 
The monstrous whales and sharks 
Beneath the briny flood, 
The tigers in the wood, 
And in the fields, the larks. 
One she, however, of these last, 
Found more than half the spring-time past 
Without the taste of spring-time pleasures ; 
When firmly she set up her will 
That she would be a mother still, 
And resolutely took her measures ; — 
First, got herself by Hymen match'd ; 
Then built her nest, laid, sat, and hatch'd. 
All went as well as such things could. 
The wheat-crop ripening ere the brood 
Were strong enough to take their flight, 
Aware how perilous their plight, 

The lark went out to search for food, 



And told her young to listen well, 
And keep a constant sentinel. 
The owner of this field, said she, 
Will come, I know, his grain to see. 
Hear all he says ; we little birds 
Must shape our conduct by his words. 

No sooner was"<the lark away, 
Than came the owner with his son. 
This wheat is ripe, said he : now run 

And give our friends a call 

To bring their sickles all, 

And help us, great and small, 
To-morrow, at the break of day. 
The lark, returning, found no harm, 
Except her neat in wild alarm. 
Says one, We heard the owner say. 

Go, give our friends a call 
To help, to-morrow, break of day. 

Replied the lark, If that is all, 
We need not be in any fear, 
But only keep an open ear. 
As gay as larks, now eat your victuals. — 
They ate and slept — the great and littles. 
The dawn arrives, but not the friends ; 
The lark soars up, the owner wends 
His usual round to view his land. 
This grain, says he, ought not to stand. 
Our friends do wrong ; and so does he 
Who trusts that friends will friendly be. 
My son, go call our kith and kin 
To help us get our harvest hi. 

This second order made 
The little larks still more afraid. 
He sent for kindred, mother, by his son ; 
The work will now, indeed, be done. 

No, darlings ; go to sleep ; 

Our lowly nest we'll keep. 
With reason said, for kindred there came none. 
Thus, tired of expectation vain, 
Once more the owner view'd his grain. 
My son, said he, we're surely fools 
To wait for other people's tools ; 
As if one might, for love or pelf, 
Have friends more faithful than himself ! 
Engrave this lesson deep, my son. 
And know you now what must be done ? 
We must ourselves our sickles bring, 
And, while the larks their matins sing, 
Begin the work ; and, on this plan, 
Get in our harvest as we can. 
This plan the lark no sooner knew, 
Than, Now's the time, she said, my chicks ; 
And, taking little time to fix, 

Away they flew ; 
All fluttering, soaring, often grounding, 
Decamp'd without a trumpet sounding. 



BOOK V. 

I.— THE WOODMAN AND MERCURY. 

TO M. THE CHJSVALIER DE BOUILLON. 



Your taste has served my work to guide ; 
To gain its suffrage I have tried. 
You'd have me shun a care too nice, 
Or beauty at too dear a price, 
Or too much effort, as a vice. 



157 



28 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



My taste with yours agrees : 

Such effort cannot please : 
And too much pains about the polish 
Is apt the substance to abolish ; 
Not that it would be right or wise 
The graces all to ostracize. 
You love them much when delicate ; 
Nor is it left for rne to hate. 
As to the scope of iEsop's plan, 
I fail as little as I can. 
If this my rhymed and measured speech 
Availeth not to please or teach, 
I own it not a fault of mine ; 
Some unknown reason I assign. 

With little strength endued 

For battles rough and rude, 
Or with Herculean arm to smite, 
I show to vice its foolish plight. 
In this my talent wholly lies ; 
Not that it does at ail suffice. 
My fable sometimes brings to view 
The face of vanity purblind 
With that of restless envy join'd ; 
And life now turns upon these pivots two. 
Such is the silly little frog 
That aped the ox upon her bog. 
A double image sometimes shows 
How vice and folly do oppose 
The ways of virtue and good sense ; 
As lambs with wolves so grim and gaunt, 
The silly fly and frugal ant. 
Thus swells my work— a comedy immense — 
Its acts unnumber'd and diverse, 
Its scene the boundless universe. 
Gods, men, and brutes, all play their part 
In fields of nature or of art, 
And Jupiter among the rest. 
Here comes the god who's wont to bear 
Jove's frequent errands to the fair, 

With winged heels and haste ; 
But other work 's in hand to-day. 

A man that labour'd in the wood 
Had lost his honest livelihood ; 
That is to say, 

His axe was gone astray. 

He had no tools to spare ; 

This wholly earn'd his fare. 

Without a hope beside, 

He sat him down and cried, 
Alas, my axe ! where can it be ? 
O Jove ! but send it back to me, 
And it shall strike good blows for thee. 
His prayer in high Olympus heard, 
Swift Mercury started at the word. 
Your axe must not be lost, said he : 
Now will you know it when you see ? 
An axe I found upon the road. 
With that an axe of gold he show'd. 
Is't this ? The woodman answer'd, Nay. 
An axe of silver, bright and gay, 
Itefused the honest woodman too. 
At last the finder brought to view 
An axe of iron, steel, and wood. 
That's mine, he said, in joyful mood ; 
With that I'll quite contented be. 
The god replied, I give the three, 
As due- reward of honesty. 
This iuck when neighbouring choppers knew. 
They lost their axes, not a few, 



And sent their prayers to Jupiter 
So fast, he knew not which to hear. 
His winged son, however, sent 
With gold and silver axes, went. 
Each would have thought himself a fool 
Not to have own'd the richest tool. 
But Mercury promptly gave, instead 
Of it, a blow upon the head. 
With simple truth to be contented, 
Is surest not to be repented ; 

But still there are who would 

With evil trap the good, — 

Whose cunning is but stupid, 

For Jove is never duped. 



II.— THE EARTHEN POT AND THE IRON POT. 

An iron pot proposed 

To an earthen pot a journey. 
The latter was opposed, 

Expressing the concern he 
Had felt about the danger 
Of going out a ranger. 
He thought the kitchen hearth 
The safest place on earth 
For one so very brittle. 
For thee, who art a kettle, 
And hast a tougher skin, 
There's nought to keep thee in. 
I'll be thy body-guard, 

Replied the iron pot ; 
If anything that's hard 

Should threaten thee a jot, 
Between you I will go, 
And save thee from the blow. 

This offer him persuaded. 

The iron pot paraded 

Himself as guard and guide 

Close at his cousin's side. 

Now, in their tripod way, 

They hobble as they may; 

And eke together bolt 

At every little jolt, — 

Which gives the crockery pain ; 
But presently his comrade hits 
So hard, he dashes him to bits, 

Before he can complain. 
Take care that you associate 
With equals only, lest your fate 
Between these pots should find its mate. 



III.— THE LITTLE FISH AND THE FISHER, 

A little fish will grow, 

If life be spared, a great ; 
But yet to let him go, 

And for his growing wait, 
May not be very wise, 

As 'tis not sure your bait 
Will catch him when of size. 
Upon a river bank, a fisher took 
A tiny troutling from his hook. 
Said he, 'Twill serve to count, at least, 
As the beginning of my feast ; 
And so I'll put it with the rest. 
This little fish, thus caught, 
His clemency besought. 



158 



BOOK V.] 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



29 



What will your honour do with me \ 

I'm cot a mouthful, as you see. 

Pray let me grow to be a trout, 

And then come here and fish me out. 

Some alderman, who likes things nice, 

Will buy me then at any price. 

But now, a hundred such you'll have to fish, 

To make a single good-for-nothing dish. 
Well, well, be it so, replied the fisher, 
My little fish, who play the preacher, 
The frying-pan must be your lot, 
Although, no doubt, you like it not : 
I fry the fry that can be got. 

In some things, men of sense 
Prefer the present to the future tense. 



IV.-THE EARS OP THE HARE. 

Some beast with horns did gore 

The lion; and that sovereign dread, 
Resolved to suffer so no more, 

Straight banish' d from his realm, 'tis said, 
All sorts of beasts with horns — 
Rams, bulls, goats, stags, and unicorns. 
Such brutes all promptly fled. 
A hare, the shadow of his ears perceiving, 

Could hardly help believing 
That some vile spy for horns would take them, 
And food for accusation make them. 
Adieu, said he, my neighbour cricket ; 
I take my foreign ticket. 

My ears, should I stay here, 
Will turn to horns, I fear ; 
And were they shorter than a bird's, 
I fear the effect of words. 
These horns ! the cricket answer'd ; why, 
God made them ears who can deny ? 
Yes, said the coward, still they'll make them horns, 
And horns, perhaps of unicorns ! 

In vain shall I protest, 
With all the learning of the schools : 
My reasons they will send to rest 
In th' Hospital of Fools. 



V.— THE FOX WITH HIS TAIL CUT OFF. 

A cunning old fox, of plundering habits, 
Great crauncher of fowls, great catcher of rabbits, 
Whom none of his sort had caught in a nap, 
Was finally caught in somebody's trap. 
By luck he escaped, not wholly and hale, 
For the price of his luck was the loss of his tail. 
Escaped in this. way, to save his disgrace, 
He thought to get others in similar case. 
One day that the foxes in council were met, 
Why wear we, said he, this cumbering weight, 
Which sweeps in the dirt wherever it goes ? 
Pray tell me its use if any one knows. 
If the council will take my advice, 
We shall dock off our tails in a trice. 
Your advice maybe good, said one on the ground; 
But, ere I reply, pray turn yourself round ; 
Whereat such a shout from the council was heard, 
Poor bob-tail, confounded, could say not a word. 
To urge the reform would have wasted his breath: 
Long tails were the mode till the day of his death. 



VI.— THE OLD WOMAN AND HER TWO 
SERVANTS. 

A beldam kept two spinning maids, 
Who plied so handily their trades, 
Those spinning sisters down below 
Were bunglers when compared with these. 

No care did this old woman know 
But giving tasks as she might please. 
No sooner did the god of day 

His glorious locks enkindle, 
Than both the wheels began to play, 

And from each whirling spindle 
Forth danced the thread right merrily, 
And back was coil'd unceasingly. 
Soon as the dawn, I say, its tresses show'd, 
A graceless cock most punctual crow'd. 
The beldam roused, more graceless yet, 

In greasy petticoat bedight, 

Struck up her farthing light, 
And then forthwith the bed beset, 
Where deeply, blessedly did snore 
Those two maid-servants tired and poor. 
One oped an eye, an arm one stretch 'd, 
And both their breath most sadly fetch'd, 
This threat concealing in the sigh — 
That cursed cock shall surely die ! 
And so he did : — they cut his throat, 
And put to sleep his rousing note. 
And yet this murder mended not 
The cruel hardship of their lot ; 
For now the twain were scarce in bed 
Before they heard the summons dread. 
The beldam, full of apprehension 
Lest oversleep should cause detention, 
Ran like a goblin through her mansion. 

Thus often, when one thinks 
To clear himself from ill, 

His effort only sinks 
Him in the deeper still. 

The beldam acting for the cock, 

Was Scylla for Charybdis' rock. 



VII.-THE SATYR AND THE TRAVELLER. 

Within a savage forest grot 

A satyr and his chips 
Were taking down their porridge hot; 

Their cups were at their lips. 

You might have seen in mossy den, 
Himself, his wife, and brood ; 

They had not tailor-clothes, like men, 
But appetites as good. 

In came a traveller, benighted, 

All hungry, cold, and wet, 
Who heard himself to eat invited 

With nothing like regret. 

He did not give his host the pain 

His asking to repeat ; 
But first he blew with might and main 

To give his fingers heat. 



159 



30 THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. [book v. 


Then in his steaming porridge dish 




He delicately blew. 
The -wondering satyr said, I wish 


IX.— THE PLOUGHMAN AND HIS SONS. 


The use of both I knew. 


The farmer's patient care and toil 


Why, first, my blowing warms my hand, 


Are oftener wanting than the soil. 


And then it cools my porridge. 
Ah ! said his host, then understand 


A wealthy ploughman drawing near his end, 


I cannot give you storage. 


Call'd in his sons apart from every friend, 
And said, When of your sire bereft, 


To sleep beneath one roof with you, 


The heritage our fathers left 


I may not be so bold. 


Guard well, nor sell a single field. 


Ear be from me that mouth untrue 


A treasure in it is conceal' d : 


Which blows both hot and cold. 


The place, precisely, I don't know, 




But industry will serve to show. 


o 


The harvest past, Time's forelock take, 


VIH.-TEE HORSE AND THE WOLF. 


And search with plough, and spade, and rake; 
Turn over every inch of sod, 


A wolf, what time the thawing breeze 
Renews the life of plants and trees, 


Nor leave unsearch'd a single clod. 
The father died. The sons — and not in vain — 
Turn'd o'er the soil, and o'er a°;ain : 


And beasts go forth from winter lair 
To seek abroad their various fare, — 


I hat year their acres bore 
More grain than e'er before. 
Though hidden money found they none, 
Yet had their father wisely done, 

To show by such a measure, 

That toil itself is treasure. 


A wolf, I say, about those days, 

In sharp look-out for means and ways, 

Espied a horse turn'd out to graze. 

His joy the reader may opine. 

Once got, said he, this game were fine ; 


But if a sheep, 'twere sooner mine. 




I can't proceed my usual way ; 


e 


Some trick must now be put in play. 




This said, 


X.— THE MOUNTAIN IN LABOUR. 


He came with measured tread, 





As if a healer of disease, — 


A mountain was in travail pang ; 


Some pupil of Hippocrates, — 


The country with her clamour ran^. 


And told the horse, with learned verbs, 


Out ran the people all, to see, 


He knew the power of roots and herbs, — 


Supposing that the birth would be 


Whatever grew about those borders, — 


A city, or at least a house. 


And not at all to flatter 


It was a mouse ! 


Himself in such a matter, 




Could cure of all disorders. 


In thinking of this fable, 


If he, Sir Horse, would not conceal 


Of story feign'd and false, 


The symptoms of his case, 


But meaning veritable, 


He, Doctor Wolf, would gratis heal ; 


My mind the image calls 


For that to feed in such a place, 


Of one who writes, " The war I sing 


And run about untied, 


Which Titans waged against the Thunder-king." 


Was proof itself of some disease, 


As on "the sounding verses ring, 


As all the books decide. 


What will be brought to birth ? 


I have, good doctor, if you please, 


Why, dearth. 


Replied the horse, as I presume, 


Beneath my foot, an aposthume. 




My son, replied the learned leech, 






That part, as all our authors teach, 




Is strikingly susceptible 


XI.— FORTUNE AND THE BOY 


Of ills which make acceptable 





What you may also have from me — 


Beside a well, uncurb'd and deep, 


The aid of skilful surgery ; 


A schoolboy laid him down to sleep : 


Which noble art, the fa'ct is, 


(Such rogues can do so anywhere.) 


For horses of the blood I practise. 


If some land man had seen him there, 


The fellow, with this talk sublime, 


He would have leap'd as if distracted ; 


Watch'd for a snap the fitting time. 


But Fortune much more wisely acted ; 


Meanwhile, suspicious of some trick, 


For, passing by, she softly waked the child, 


The wary patient nearer draws, 


Thus whispering in accents mild : 


And gives his doctor such a kick, 


I save your life, my little dear, 


As makes a chowder of his jaws. 


And beg you not to venture here 


Exclaim'd the wolf, in sorry plight, 


Again, for had you fallen in, 


I own those heels have served me right. 


I should have had to bear the sin ; 


I err'd to quit my trade, 


But I demand, in reason's name, 


As I will not in future ; 


If for your rashness I'm to blame. 


Me nature surely made 


With this the goddess went her way. 


For nothing but a butcher. 


I like her logic, I must say. 



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SI 



There takes place nothing on this planet, 
But Fortune ends, whoe'er began it. 
In all adventures good or ill, 
We look to her to foot the bill. 
Has one a stupid, empty pate, 
That serves him never till too late ? 
He clears himself hy blaming Fate. 



XII.— THE DOCTORS. 

The selfsame patient put to test 
Two doctors, Fear-the-worst and Hope-the-best 
The latter hoped ; the former did maintain 
The man would take all medicine in vain. 
By different cures the patient was beset, 
But erelong cancell'd nature's debt, 

While nursed 
As was prescribed by Fear-the-worst. 
But over the disease both triumph'd still. 

Said one, I well foresaw his death. 
Yes, said the other, but my pill 

Would certainly have saved his breath. 



XIIL— THE HEN AYITH THE GOLDEN EGGS. 

How avarice loseth all, 

By striving all to gain, 
I need no witness call 

But him whose thrifty hen, 
As by the fable we are told, 
Laid every day an egg of gold. 
She hath a treasure in her body, 
Bethinks the avaricious noddy. 
He kills and opens — vexed to find 
All things like hens of common kind. 
Thus spoil'd the source of all his riches, 
To misers he a lesson teaches. 

In these last changes of the mooa, 

How often doth one see 

Men made as poor as he 
By force of getting rich too soon ! 



XIV.— THE ASS CARRYING RELICS. 

An ass, with relics for his loadj 
Supposed the worship on the road 

Meant for himself alone, 
And took on lofty airs, 

Receiving as his own 

The incense and the prayers. 
Some one, who saw his great mistake, 
Cried, Master Donkey, do not make 

Yourself so big a fool. 
Not you they worship, but your pack ; 
They praise the. idols on your back, 

And count yourself a paltry tool. 

'Tis thus a brainless magistrate 
Is honour'd for his robe of state. 



XV.-THE STAG AND THE VINE. 

A stag, by favour of a vine, 

Which grew where suns most genial shine, 

And form'd a thick and matted bower 

Which might have turn'd a summer shower, 

Was saved from ruinous assault. 

The hunters thought their dogs at fault, 

And call'd them off. In danger now no mores 

The stag, a thankless wretch and vile, 
Began to browse his benefactress o'er. 

The hunters, listening the while, 
The rustling heard, came back 
With all their yelping pack, 

And seized him in that very place. 

This is, said he, but justice, in my case. 
Let every black ingrate 
Henceforward profit by my fate. 

The dogs fell to — 'twere wasting breath 

To pray those hunters at the death. 

They left, and we will not revile 'em, 

A warning for profaners of asylum. 



XVI.— THE SERPENT AND THE FILE 

A serpent, neighbour to a smith, 

(A neighbour bad to meddle with,) 

Went through his shop, in search of food, 

But nothing found, 'tis understood, 

To eat, except a file of steel, 

Of which he tried to make a meal. 

The file, without a spark of passion, 

Address'd him in the following fashion : — 

Poor simpleton ! you surely bite 

With less of sense than appetite ; 

For ere from me you gain 

One quarter of a grain, 
You'll break your teeth from ear to ear. 
Time's are the only teeth I fear. 

This tale concerns those men of letters, 
Who, good for nothing, bite their betters. 
Their biting so is quite unwise. 
Think you, ye literary sharks, 
Your teeth will leave their marks 
Upon the deathless works you criticise \ 

Fie ! fie ! fie ! men ! 
To you they're brass — they're steel — they're dia- 
mond. 



XVH.— THE HARE AND THE PARTRIDGE. 

Beware how you deride 
The exiles from life's sunny side : 

To you is little known 
How soon their case may be your own. 
On this, sage iEsop gives a tale or two, 
As in my verses I propose to do. 
A field in common share 
A partridge and a hare, 
And live in peaceful state, 
Till, woeful to relate ! 
The hunters' mingled cry 
Compels the hare to fly. 



161 



32 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



[book V 



He hurries to his fort, 
And spoils almost the sport 
By faulting every hound 
That yelps upon the ground. 
At last his reeking heat 
Betrays his snug retreat. 

Old Tray, with philosophic nose, 

Snuffs carefully, and grows 
So certain, that he cries, 

The hare is here ; how wow ! 
And veteran Ranger now, — 
The dog that never lies, — 
The hare is gone, replies. 
Alas ! poor, wretched hare, 
Back comes he to his lair, 
To meet destruction there ! 
The partridge, void of fear, 
Begins her friend to jeer : — 
You hragg'd of being fleet ; 
How serve you, now, your feet ? 
Scarce has she ceased to speak, — 
The laugh yet in her beak, — 
When comes her turn to die, 
From which she could not fly. 
She thought her wings, indeed, 
Enough for every need ; 
But in her laugh and talk, 
Forgot the cruel hawk ! 



XVIII.— THE EAGLE AND THE OWL. 

The eagle and the owl, resolved to cease 
Their war, embraced in pledge of peace. 
On faith of king, on faith of owl, they swore 
That they would eat each other's chicks no more. 
But know you mine ? said Wisdom's bird. 
Not I, indeed, the eagle cried. 
The worse for that, the owl replied : 
I fear your oath 's a useless word ; 
I fear that you, as king, will not 
Consider duly who or what : 
You kings and gods, of what 's before ye, 
Are apt to make one category. 
Adieu, my young, if you should meet them ! 
Describe them, then, or let me greet them, 
And, on my life, I will not eat them, 
The eagle said. The owl replied : 
My little ones, I say with pride, 
For grace of form cannot be match'd, — 
The prettiest birds that e'er were hatch'd ; 
By this you cannot fail to know them ; 
'Tis needless, therefore, that I show them. 
Pray don't forget, but keep this mark in view, 
Lest fate should curse my happy nest by you. 
At length God gives the owl a set of heirs, 
And while at early eve abroad he fares, 
In quest of birds and mice for food, 
Our eagle haply spies the brood, 
As on some craggy rock they sprawl, 
Or nestle in some ruined wall, 
(But which it matters not at all,) 
And thinks them ugly little frights, 
Grim, sad, with voice like shrieking sprites. 
These chicks, says he, with looks almost infernal, 
Can't be the darlings of our friend nocturnal. 
I'll sup of them. And so he did, not slightly : — 
He never sups, if he can help it, lightly. 



The owl return' d ; and, sad, he found 
Nought left but claws upon the ground. 

He pray'd the gods above and gods below 

To smite the brigand who had caused his woe. 

Quoth one, On you alone the blame must fall ; 
Or rather on the law of nature, 
Which wills that every earthly creature 

Shall think its like the loveliest of all. 

You told the eagle of your young ones' graces ; 
You gave the picture of their faces : — 
Had it of likeness any traces ? 



XIX— THE LION GOIXG TO WAR. 

The lion had an enterprise in hand ; 

Held a war-council, sent his provost-marshal, 
And gave the animals a call impartial — 

Each, in his way, to serve his high command . 
The elephant should carry on his back 
The tools of war, the mighty public pack, 
And fight in elephantine way and form ; 
The bear should hold himself prepared to storm ; 
The fox all secret stratagems should fix ; 
The monkey should amuse the foe by tricks. 
Dismiss, said one, the blockhead asses, 

And hares, too cowardly and fleet. 
No, said the king ; I use all classes ; 

Without their aid my force were incomplete. 
The ass shall be our trumpeter, to scare 
Our enemy. And then the nimble hare 
Our royal bulletins shall homeward bear. 

A monarch provident and wise 
Will hold his subjects all of consequence, 

And know in each what talent lies. 
There's nothing useless to a man of sense. 



XX.— THE BEAR AND THE TWO COMPANIONS. 

Two fellows, needing funds, and bold, 
A bearskin to a furrier sold, 
Of which the bear was living still, 
But which they presently would kill — 
At least they said they would. 
And, if their word was good, 
It was a king of bears — an Ursa Major — 

The biggest bear beneath the sun. 
Its skin, the chaps would wager, 
Was cheap at double cost ; 
'T would make one laugh at frost — 
And make two robes as well as one. 
Old Dindenaut *, in sheep who dealt, 
Less prized his sheep, than they their pelt — 
(In their account 'twas theirs, 
But in his own, the bear's.) 
By bargain struck upon the skin, 
Two days at most must bring it in. 
Forth went the two. More easy found than got, 
The bear came growling at them on the trot. 
Behold our dealers both confounded, 
As if by thunderbolt astounded ! 
Their bargain vanish' d suddenly in air ; 
For who could plead his interest with a bear ? 
One of the friends sprung up a tree ; 
The other, cold as ice could be, 

* Tide Rabelais, Pantagruel, Book IV. Chap. viii. 



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THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



33 



Fell on his face, feign' d death, 

And closely held his breath, — 
He having somewhere heard it said 
The bear ne'er preys upon the dead. 
Sir Bear, sad blockhead, was deceived — 
The prostrate man a corpse believed ; 
But, half suspecting some deceit, 
He feels and snuffs from head to feet, 

And in the nostrils blows. 
The body's surely dead, he thinks. 
I'll leave it, says he, for it stinks ; 

And off into the woods he goes. 
The other dealer, from his tree 
Descending cautiously, to see 
His comrade lying in the dirt, 

Consoling, says, It is a wonder 

That, by the monster forced asunder, 
We're, after all, more scared than hurt. 
But, addeth he, what of the creature's skin \ 
He held his muzzle very near ; 
What did he whisper in your ear ? 
He gave this caution, — " Never dare 
Again to sell the skin of bear 
Its owner has not ceased to wear." 



XXI.-THE ASS DRESSED IN THE LION'S SKIN. 

Clad in a lion's shaggy hide, 
An ass spread terror far and wide, 
And, though himself a coward brute, 
Put all the world to scampering rout : 

But, by a piece of evil luck, 

A portion of an ear outstuck, 

Which soon reveal'd the error 

Of all the panic-terror. 
Old Martin did his office quick. 
Surprised were all who did not know the trick, 

To see that Martin, at his will, 

Was driving lions to the mill ! 

In France, the men are not a few 
Of whom this fable proves too true ; 
Whose valour chiefly doth reside 
In coat they wear and horse they ride. 



BOOK VI. 



I.— THE SHEPHERD AND THE LION. 

Op fables judge not by their face ; 
They give the simplest brute a teacher's place. 
Bare precepts were inert and tedious things ; 
The story gives them life and wings. 
But story for the story's sake 

Were sorry business for the wise ; 
As if, for pill that one should take, 
You gave the sugary disguise. 
For reasons such as these, 
Full many writers great and good 
Have written in this frolic mood, 
And made their wisdom please. 
But tinsel'd style they all have shunn'd with care : 
With them one never sees a word to spare. 
Of Phaedrus some have blamed the brevity, 
While jEsop uses fewer words than he. 



A certain Greek, however, beats 

Them both in his laconic feats. 

Each tale he locks in verses four ; 
The well or ill I leave to critic lore. 
At iEsop's side to see him let us aim. 
Upon a theme substantially the same. 
The one selects a lover of the chase ; 
A shepherd comes, the other's tale to grace. 
Their tracks I keep, though either tale may grow 
A little in its features as I go. 

The one which 'iEsop tells is nearly this : — 
A shepherd from his flock began to miss, 
And long'd to catch the stealer of his sheep. 
Before a cavern, dark and deep, 
Where wolves retired by day to sleep, 
Which he suspected as the thieves, 
He set his trap among the leaves ; 
And, ere he left the place, 
He thus invoked celestial grace : — 
O king of all the powers divine, 
Against the rogue but grant me this delight, 
That this my trap may catch him in my sight, 
And I, from twenty calves of mine, 

Will make the fattest thine. 
But while the words were on his tongue, 
Forth came a lion great and strong. 
Down crouch'd the man of sheep, and said, 
With shivering fright half dead, 
Alas ! that man should never be aware 
Of what may be the meaning of his prayer ! 
To catch the robber of my flocks, 
king of gods, I pledged a calf to thee : 
If from his clutches thou wilt rescue me, 
I'll raise my offering to an ox. 

'Tis thus the master-author tells the stor 
Now hear the rival of his glory. 



II.— THE LION AND THE HUNTER. 

A braggart, lover of the chase, 
Had lost a dog of valued race, 
And thought him in a lion's maw. 
He ask'd a shepherd whom he saw, 
Pray show me, man, the robber's place, 
And I'll have justice in the case. 
'Tis on this mountain side, 
The shepherd man replied. 
The tribute of a sheep I pay, 
Each month, and where I please I stray. 
Out leap'd the lion as he spake, 

And came that way, with agile feet. 

The braggart, prompt his flight to take, 

Cried, Jove, grant a safe retreat ! 

A danger close at hand 

Of courage is the test. 
It shows us who will stand — 

Whose legs will run their best. 



HI.— PHOEBUS AND BOREAS. 

Old Boreas and the sun, one day 
Espied a traveller on his way, 
Whose dress did happily provide 
Against whatever might betide. 



163 



34 THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. [book vi. 


The time was autumn, when, indeed, 


His various crops should feel the power 


All prudent travellers take heed. 


Of heat or cold, of sun or shower. 


The rains that then the sunshine dash, 




And Iris with her splendid sash, 


Jove yields. The bargain closed, our man 


Warn one who does not like to soak 


Rains, blows, and takes the care 


To wear abroad a good thick cloak. 


Of all the changes of the air, 


Our man was therefore well hedight 


On his peculiar, private plan. 


With double mantle, strong and tight. 


His nearest neighbours felt it not, 


This fellow, said the wind, has meant 


And all the better was their lot. 


To guard from every ill event ; 


Their year was good, by grace divine ; 


But little does he wot that I 


The grain was rich, and full the vine. 


Can blow him such a blast 


The renter, failing altogether, 


That, not a button fast, 


The next year made quite different weather ; 


His cloak shall cleave the sky. 

Come, here's a pleasant game, Sir Sun ! 


And yet the fruit of all his labours 


Was far inferior to his neighbours'. 


Wilt play % Said Phoebus, Done ! 


What better could he do ? To Heaven 


We'll bet between us here 


He owns at last his want of sense, 


Which first will take the gear 


And so is graciously forgiven. 


From off this cavalier. 


Hence we conclude that Providence 


Begin, and shut away 


Knows better what we need 


The brightness of my ray. 


Than we ourselves, indeed. 


Enough. Our blower, on the bet, 
SwelPd out his pursy form 






With all the stuff for storm — 


V.— THE COCKEREL, THE CAT, AND THE 


The thunder, hail, and drenching wet, 


YOUNG MOUSE. 


And all the fury he could muster ; 





Then, with a very demon's bluster, 


A youthful mouse, not up to trap, 


He whistled, whirl' d, and splash'd, 


Had almost met a sad mishap. 


And down the torrents dash'd, 


The story hear him thus relate, 


Full many a roof uptearing 


With great importance, to his mother : — 


He never did before, 


I pass'd the mountain bounds of this estate, 


Full many a vessel bearing 


And off was trotting on another, 


To wreck upon the shore, — 


Like some young rat with nought to do 


And all to doff a single cloak. 


But see things wonderful and new, 


But vain the furious stroke ; 


When two strange creatures came in view. 


The traveller was stout, 


The one was mild, benign, and gracious ; 


And kept the tempest out, 


The other, turbulent, rapacious, 


Defied the hurricane, 


With voice terrific, shrill, and rough, 


Defied the pelting rain ; 


And on his head a bit of stuff 


And as the fiercer roar'd the blast, 


That look'd like raw and bloody meat, 


His cloak the tighter held he fast. 


Raised up a sort of arms, and beat 


The sun broke out, to win the bet ; 


The air, as if he meant to fly, 


He caused the clouds to disappear, 


And bore his plumy tail on high. 


Refresh' d and warm'd the cavalier, 




And through his mantle made him sweat, 


A cock, that just began to crow, 


Till off it came, of course, 


As if some nondescript, 


In less than half an hour ; 


From far New Holland shipp'd, 


And yet the sun saved half his power. — 


Was what our mousling pictured so. 


So much doth mildness more than force. 


He beat his arms, said he, and raised his voice, 




And made so terrible a noise, 




That I, who, thanks to Heaven, may justly boast 
Myself as bold as any mouse, 




IV.— JUPITER AND THE FARMER. 


Scud off, (his voice would even scare a ghost !) 





And cursed himself and all his house ; 


Op yore, a farm had Jupiter to rent ; 


For, but for him, I should have staid, 


To advertise it, Mercury was sent. 


And doubtless an acquaintance made 


The farmers, far and near, 


With her who seem'd so mild and good. 


Flock'd round, the terms to hear ; 


Like us, in velvet cloak and hood, 


And, calling to their aid 


She wears a tail that's full of grace, 


The various tricks of trade, 


A very sweet and humble face, — 


One said 'twas rash a farm to hire 


No mouse more kindness could desire, — 


Which would so much expense require ; 


And yet her eye is full of fire. 


Another, that, do what you would, 


I do believe the lovely creature 


The farm would still be far from good. 


A friend of rats and mice by nature. 


While thus, in market style, its faults were told, 


Her ears, though, like herself, they're bigger, 


One of the crowd, less wise than bold, 


Are just like ours in form and figure, 


Would give so much, on this condition, 


To her I was approaching, when, 


That Jove would yield him altogether 


Aloft on what appear'd his den, 


The choice and making of his weather, — 


The other scream'd, — and off I fled. 


That, instantly on his decision, 


My son, his cautious mother said, 



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THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



35 



That sweet one was the cat, 
The mortal foe of mouse and rat, 
Who seeks by smooth deceit, 
Her appetite to treat. 
So far the other is from that, 

We yet may eat 

His dainty meat ; 
Whereas the cruel cat, 
Whene'er she can, devours 
No other meat than ours. 

Remember while you live, 

It is by looks that men deceive. 



VI.— THE FOX, THE MONKEY, AND THE 
ANIMALS. 

Left kingless by the lion's death, 

The beasts once met, our story saith, 

Some fit successor to install. 
Forth from a dragon-guarded, moated place, 
The crown was brought, and, taken from its case, 

And being tried by turns on all, 

The heads of most were found too small ; 

Some horned were, and some too big ; 
Not one would fit the regal gear. 

For ever ripe for such a rig, 

The monkey, looking very queer, 

Approach'd with antics and grimaces, 

And, after scores of monkey faces, 
With what would seem a gracious stoop, 
Pass'd through the crown as through a hoop. 

The beasts, diverted with the thing, 

Did homage to him as their king. 

The fox alone the vote regretted, 

But yet in public never fretted. 

When he his compliments had paid 

To royalty, thus newly made, 

Great sire, I know a place, said he, 
Where lies conceal'd a treasure, 

Which, by the right of royalty, 
Should bide your royal pleasure. 

The king lack'd not an appetite 
For such financial pelf, 

And, not to lose his royal right, 
Ran straight to see it for himself. 

It was a trap, and he was caught. 

Said Renard, Would you have it thought, 

You ape, that you can fill a throne, 

And guard the rights of all, alone, 

Not knowing how to guard your own ? 

The beasts all gather' d from the farce, 
That stuff for kings is very scarce. 



VII.— THE MULE BOASTING OF HIS 
GENEALOGY. 

A prelate's mule of noble birth was proud, 
And talk'd, incessantly and loud, 
Of nothing but his dam, the mare, 

Whose mighty deeds by him recounted were, — ' 

This had she done, and had been present there,- 
By which her son made out his claim 
To notice on the scroll of Fame. 

Too proud, when young, to bear a doctor's pill ; 
When old, he had to turn a mill. 
As there they used his limbs to bind, 
His sire, the ass, was brought to mind. 



Misfortune, were its only use 
The claims of folly to reduce, 
And bring men down to sober reason, 
Would be a blessing in its season. 



VIII.— THE OLD MAN AND THE ASS. 

An old man, riding on his ass, 
Had found a spot of thrifty grass, 
And there turn'd loose his weary beast. 
Old Grizzle, pleased with such a feast, 
Flung up his heels, and caper'd round, 
Then roll'd and rubb'cl upon the ground. 
And frisk'd and browsed and bray'd, 
And many a clean spot made. 
Arm'd men came on them as he fed : 
Let's fly, in haste the old man said. 
And wherefore so ? the ass replied. 
With heavier burdens will they ride ? 

No, said the man, already started. 

Then, cried the ass, as he departed, 

I'll stay, and be — no matter whose ; 

Save you yourself, and leave me loose. 

But let me tell you, ere you go, 

(I speak plain French, you know,) 

My master is my only foe. 



IX.— THE STAG SEEING HIMSELF IN T'HE 
WATER. 

Beside a placid, crystal flood, 
A stag admired the branching wood 
That high upon his forehead stood, 
But gave his Maker little thanks 
For what he call'd his spindle shanks. 
What limbs are these for such a head ! — • 
So mean and slim ! with grief he said. 
My glorious head o'ertops 
The branches of the copse ; 
My legs are my disgrace. 
As thus he talk'd, a bloodhound gave him chase. 
To save his life he flew 
Where forests thickest grew. 
His horns, — pernicious ornament ! — 
Arresting him where'er he went, 
Did unavailing render 

What else, in such a strife, 
Had saved his precious life — 
His legs, as fleet as slender. 
Obliged to yield, he cursed the gear 
Which nature gave him every year. 

Too much the beautiful we prize ; 
The useful, often, we despise : 
Yet oft, as happen' d to the stag, 
The former doth to ruin drag. 



X.— THE HARE AND THE TORTOISE. 

To win a race, the swiftness of a dart 

Availeth not without a timely start. 

The hare and tortoise are my witnesses. 

Said tortoise to, the swiftest thing that is, 

I'll bet that you'll not reach so soon as I 

The tree dn yonder hill we spy. 
So soon ! Why, madam, are you frantic 2 
Replied the creature, with an antic ; 



165 



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THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



[book VI. 



Pray take, your senses to restore, 

A grain or two of hellebore. 
Say, said the tortoise, what you will ; 
I dare you to the wager still. 

'Twas done ; the stakes were paid, 

And near the goal tree laid — 
Of what, is not a question for this place, 
Nor who it was that judged the race. 
Our hare had scarce five jumps to make, 
Of such as he is wont to take, 
When, starting just before their beaks 

He leaves the hounds at leisure, 
Thence till the kalends of the Greeks, 

The sterile heath to measure. 
Thus having time to browse and doze, 
And list which way the zephyr blows, 
He makes himself content to wait, 
And let the tortoise go her gait 
In solemn, senatorial state. 
She starts ; she moils on, modestly and lowly, 
And with a prudent wisdom hastens slowly ; 
But he, meanwhile, the victory despises, 

Thinks lightly of such prizes, 

Believes it for his honour 
To take late start and gain upon her. 

So, feeding, sitting at his ease, 

He meditates of what you please, 

Till his antagonist he sees 

Approach the goal ; then starts, 

Away like lightning darts : 

But vainly does he run ; 
The race is by the tortoise won. 

Cries she, My senses do I lack ? 
What boots your boasted swiftness now ? 
You're beat ! and yet, you must allow, 

I bore my house upon my back. 



XI.— THE ASS AND HIS MASTERS. 

A gardener's ass complain'd to Destiny 
Of being made to rise before the dawn. 
The cocks their matins have not sung, said he, 

Ere I am up and gone. 
And all for what ? To market herbs, it seems. 
Fine cause, indeed, to interrupt my dreams ! 
Fate, moved by such a prayer, 
Sent him a currier's load to bear, 
Whose hides so heavy and ill-scented were, 

They almost choked the foolish beast- 
I wish me with my former lord, he said ; 
For then, whene'er he turn'd his head, 
If on the watch, I caught 
A cabbage-leaf, which cost me nought. 
But, in this horrid place, I find 
No chance or windfall of the kind ; — 
Or if, indeed, I do, 
The cruel blows I rue. 
Anon it came to pass 
He was a collier's ass. 
Still more complaint. What now ? said Fate, 
Quite out of patience. 
If on this jackass I must wait, 
What will become of kings and nations ? 
Has none but he aught here to tease him ? 
Have I no business but to please him ? 
And Fate had cause ; — for all are so. 
Unsatisfied while here below 



Our present lot is aye the worst. 

Our foolish prayers the skies infest. 

Were Jove to gi'ant all we request, 
The din renew'd, his head would burst. 



XH.— THE SEN AND THE FROGS. 

Rejoicing on then* tyrant's wedding-day, 
The people drown'd their care in drink ; 
While from the general joy did ^Esop shrink, 

And show'd its folly in this way. 
The sun, said he, once took it in his head 

To have a partner for his bed. 
From swamps, and ponds, and marshy bogs, 
Up rose the wailings of the frogs. 
What shall we do, should he have progeny ? 
Said they to Destiny ; 
One sun we scarcely can endure, 
And half-a-dozen, we are sure, 
Will dry the very sea. 
Adieu to marsh and fen ! 
Our race will perish then, 
Or be obliged to fix 
Their dwelling in the Styx ! 
For such an humble animal, 
The fros;, I take it, reason'd well. 



XIII.— THE COUNTRYMAN AND THE SERPENT. 

A countryman, as iEsop certifies, 
A charitable man, but not so wise, 
One day in winter found, 
Stretch 'd on the snowy ground, 
A chill'd or frozen snake, 
As torpid as a stake, 
And, if alive, devoid of sense. 
He took him up, and bore him home, 
And, thinking not what recompense 
For such a charity would come, 
Before the fire he stretch' d him, 
And back to being fetch'd him. 
The snake scarce felt the genial heat 
Before his heart with native malice beat. 
He raised his head, thrust out his forked tongue, 
Coil'd up, and at his benefactor sprung. 
Ungrateful wretch ! said he, is this the way 

My care and kindness you repay ? 
Now you shall die. With that his axe he takes, 
And with two blows three serpents makes. 
Trunk, head, and tail were separate snakes ; 
And, leaping up with all their might, 
They vainly sought to reunite. 

'Tis good and lovely to be kind ; 
But charity should not be blind ; 
For as to wretchedness ingrate, 
You cannot raise it from its wretched state. 



XIV.— THE SICK LION AND THE FOX. 

Sick in his den, we understand, 
The king of beasts sent out command 
That of his vassals every sort 
Should send some deputies to court — 
With promise well to treat 
Each deputy and suite ; 



166 



BOOK VI.] 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



37 



On faith of lion, duly written, 
None should be scratch 'd, much less be bitten. 
The royal will was executed, 
And some from every tribe deputed ; 
The foxes, only, would not come. 
One thus explain'd their choice of home : — 
Of those who seek the court, we learn, 

The tracks upon the sand 

Have one direction, and 
Not one betokens a return. 
This fact begetting some distrust, 
His majesty at present must 
Excuse us from his great levee. 

His plighted word is good, no doubt ; 
But while how beasts get in we see, 

We do not see how they get out. 



XV.— THE FOWLER, THE HAWK, AND THE 
LARK. 

From wrongs of wicked men we draw 

Excuses for our own : — 
Such is the universal law. 

Would you have mercy shown, 

Let yours be clearly known. 

A fowler's mirror served to snare 
The little tenants of the air. 
A lark there saw her pretty face, 
And was approaching to the place. 

A hawk, that sailed on high 

Like vapour in the sky, 
Came down, as still as infant's breath, 
On her who sang so near her death. 
She thus escaped the fowler's steel, 
The hawk's malignant claws to feel. 

While in his cruel way, 

The pirate pluck'd his prey, 
Upon himself the net was sprung. 
fowler, pray'd he in the hawkish tongue, 

Release me in thy clemency ! 

I never did a wrong to thee. 

The man replied, 'Tis true ; 

And did the lark to you ? 



XVI.— THE HORSE AND THE ASS. 

In such a world, all men, of every grade, 
Should each the other kindly aid ; 
For, if beneath misfortune's goad 
A neighbour falls, on you will fall his load. 

There jogg'd in company an ass and horse ; 
Nought but his harness did the last endorse ; 
The other bore a load that crush'd him down, 

And begg'd the horse a little help to give, 
Or otherwise he could not reach the town. 
This prayer, said he, is civil, I believe ; 
One half this burden you would scarcely feel. 
The horse refused, flung up a scornful heel, 
And saw his comrade die beneath the weight : — 
And saw his wrong too late ; 
For on his own proud back 
They put the ass's pack, 
And over that, beside, 
They put the ass's hide. 



XVIL— THE DOG THAT DROPPED THE SUB- 
STANCE FOR THE SHADOW. 

This world is full of shadow-chasers, 

Most easily deceived. 
Should I enumerate these racers, 

I should not be believed. 
I send them all to iEsop's dog, 
Which, crossing water on a log, 
Espied the meat he bore, below ; 
To seize its image, let it go ; 
Plunged in ; to reach the shore was glad, 
With neither what he hoped, nor what he'd had. 



XVIIL— THE CARTER IN THE SURE. 

The Phaeton who drove a load of hay 

Once found his cart bemired. 
Poor man ! the spot was far away 

From human help — retired, 
In some rude country place, 
In Brittany, as near as I can trace, 
Near Quimper Corentan, — 
A town that poet never sang, — 
Which Fate, they say, puts in the traveller's path, 
When she would rouse the man to special wrath. 
May Heaven preserve us from that route ! 
But to our carter, hale and stout : — 
Fast stuck his cart ; he swore his worst, 

And, fill'd with rage extreme, 
The mud-holes now he cursed, 

And now he cursed his team, 
And now his cart and load, — 
Anon, the like upon himself bestow'd. 
Upon the god he call'd at length, 
Most famous through the world for strength. 
O, help me, Hercules ! cried he ; 
For if thy back of yore 
This burly planet bore, 
Thy arm can set me free. 
This prayer gone up, from out a cloud there broke 
A voice which thus in godlike accents spoke : — 
The suppliant must himself bestir, 
Ere Hercules will aid confer. 
Look wisely in the proper quarter, 

To see what hindrance can be found ; 
Remove the execrable mud and mortar, 
Which, axle- deep, besets thy wheels around. 
Thy sledge and crowbar take, 
And pry me up that stone, or break ; 
Now fill that rut upon the other side. 
Hast done it ? Yes, the man replied. 
Well, said the voice, I'll aid thee now ; 

Take up thy whip. I have but, how 2 

My cart glides on with ease ! 
I thank thee, Hercules. 
Thy team, rejoin'd the voice, has light ado ; 
So help thyself, and Heaven will help thee too. 



XIX.— THE CHARLATAN. 

The world has never lack'd its charlatans; 

More than themselves have lack'd their plans. 
One sees them on the stage at tricks 
Which mock the claims of sullen Styx. 



167 



38 THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. [book vi. 


What talents in the streets they post ! 


In simple tent or leafy bower, 


One of them used to boast 


Make little work for such a power. 


Such mastership of eloquence 


That she might know exactly where 


That he could make the greatest dunce 


Her direful aid was in demand, 


Another Tully Cicero 


Renown flew courier through the land, 


In all the arts that lawyers know. 


Reporting each dispute with care ; 


Ay, sirs, a dunce, a country clown, 


Than she, outrunning Peace, was quickly there ; 


The greatest blockhead of your town, — 


And if she found a spark of ire, 


Nay more, an animal, an ass, — 


Was sure to blow it to a fire. 


The stupidest that nibbles grass, — 


At length, Renown got out of patience 


Needs only through my course to pass, 


At random hurrying o'er the nations, 


And he shall wear the gown 


And, not without good reason, thought 


With credit, honour, and renown. 


A goddess, like her mistress, ought 


The prince heard of it, call'd the man, thus spake : 


To have some fix'd and certain home, 


My stable holds a steed 


To which her customers might come ; 


Of the Arcadian breed, 


For now they often search'd in vain. 


Of which an orator I wish to make. 


With due location, it was plain 


Well, sire, you can, 


She might accomplish vastly more, 


Replied our man. 


And more in season than before. 


At once his majesty 


To find, howe'er, the right facilities, 


Paid the tuition fee. 


Was harder, then, than now it is ; 


Ten years must roll, and then the learned ass 


For then there were no nunneries. 


Should his examination pass, 
According to the rules 
Adopted in the schools ; 


So, Hymen's inn at last assign'd, 
Thence lodged the goddess to her mind. 


If not, his teacher was to tread the air, 




With balter'd neck, above the public square, — 


« 


His rhetoric bound on his back, 


XXL— THE YOUXG WEOOW. 


And on his head the ears of jack. 




A courtier told the rhetorician, 


A husband's death brings always sighs ; 


With bows and terms polite, 


The widow sobs, sheds tears — then dries. 


He would not miss the sight 


Of Time the sadness borrows wings ; 


Of that last pendent exhibition ; 


And Time returning pleasiu'e brings. 


For that his grace and dignity 


Between the widow of a year 


Would well become such high degree ; 


And of a clay, the difference 


And, on the point of being hung, 


Is so immense, 


He would bethink him of his tongue, 


That very few who see her 


And show the glory of his art, — 


Would think the laughing dame 


The power to melt the hardest heart, — 


And weeping one the same. 


And wage a war with time 


The one puts on repulsive action, 


By periods sublime — 


The other shows a strong attraction. 


A pattern speech for orators thus leaving, 


The one gives up to sighs, or true or false ; 


Whose work is vulgarly call'd thieving. 


The same sad note is heard, whoever calls. 


Ah ! was the charlatan's reply, 


Her grief is inconsolable, 


Ere that, the king, the ass, or I, 


They say ; not so our fable, 


Shall, one or other of us, die. 


Or, rather, not so says the truth. 


And reason good had he ; 




We count on life most foolishly, 


To other worlds a husband went 


Though hale and hearty we may be. 
In each ten years, death cuts down one in three. 


And left his wife in prime of youth. 


Above his dying couch she bent, 


And cried, My love, wait for me ! 




My soul would gladly go with thee ! 


-»• 


(But yet it did not go.) 




The fair one's sire, a prudent man, 


XX.— DISCORD. 


Check'd not the current of her woe. 





At last he kindly thus began : — 


The goddess Discord, having made, on high, 


My child, your grief should have its bound. 


Among the gods a general grapple, 


What boots it him beneath the ground 


And thence a lawsuit, for an apple, , 


That you should drown your charms \ 


Was turn'd out, bag and baggage, from the sky. 


Live for the living, not the dead. 


The animal call'd man, with open arms, 


I don't propose that you be led 


Received the goddess of such naughty charms, — 


At once to Hymen's arms ; 


Herself and Whether-or-no, her brother, 


But give me leave, in proper time, 


With Thine-and-mine, her stingy mother. 


To rearrange the broken chime 


In this, the lower universe, 


With one who is as good, at least, 


Our hemisphere she chose to curse : 


In all respects, as the deceased. 


For reasons good she did not please 


Alas ! she sigh'd, the cloister vows 


To visit our antipodes — 


Befit me better than a spouse. 


Folks rude and savage like the beasts, 


The father left the matter there. 


Who, wedding free from forms and priests, 


About one month thus mourn'd the fair J 



BOOK VII.] 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



39 



Another month, her weeds arranged ; 
Each diy some robe or lace she changed. 
Till mourning dresses served to grace, 
And took of ornament the place. 
The .Tolic band of loves 
Came flocking back like doves. 
Jokes, laughter, and the dance, 
' The native growth of France, 
Had finally their turn ; 
And thus, by night and morn, 
She plunged, to tell the truth, 
Deep in the fount of youth. 
Her sire no longer fear'd 
The dead so much endear'd ; 
But, as he never spoke, 
Herself the silence broke : — 
Where is that youthful spouse, said she, 
Whom, sir, you lately promised me \ 

EPILOGUE. 

Here check we our career : 

Long books I greatly fear. 

I would not quite exhaust my stuff ; 

The flower of subjects is enough. 

To me, the time is come, it seems, 

To draw my breath for other themes. 

Love, tyrant of my life, commands 

That other work be on my bauds. 
I dare not disobey. 

Once more shall Psyche be my lay. 

I'm cai'Pd by Damon to portray 
Her sorrows and her joys. 

I yield : perhaps, while she employs, 

My muse will catch a richer glow ; 
And well if this my labour'd strain 
Shall be the last and only pain 

Her spouse shall cause me here below. 



BOOK VII. 

TO MADAME DE MONTESPAN. 

The apologue is from the immortal gods ; 
Or, if the gift of man it is, 
Its author merits apotheosis. 

Whoever magic genius lauds 
Will do what in him lies 

To raise this art's inventor to the skies. 
It hath the potence of a charm, 
On dulness lays a conquering arm, 
Subjects the mind to its control, 
And works its will upon the soul. 
O lady, arm'd with equal power, 
If e'er within celestial bower, 
With messmate gods reclined, 
My muse ambrosially hath dined, 
Lend me the favour of a smile 
On this her playful toil. 

If you support, the tooth of time will shun , 

And let my work the envious years outrun. 
If authors would themselves survive, 
To gain your suffrage they should strive. 

On you my verses wait to get their worth ; 

To you my beauties all will owe their birth,- 
For beauties you will recognise 
Invisible to other eyes. 



Ah ! who can boast a taste so true, 
Of beauty or of grace, 
In either thought or face 1 
For words and looks are equal charms in you. 
Upon a theme so sweet, the truth to tell, 
My muse would gladly dwell : 
But this employ to others I must yield"; — 
A greater master claims the field. 
For me, fan' lady, 'twere enough 
Your name should be my wall and roof. 
Protect henceforth the favour'd book 
Through which for second life I look. 
In your auspicious light, 
These lines, in envy's spite, 
Will gain the glorious meed, 
That all the world shall read. 
'Tis not that I deserve such fame ; — 
I only ask in Fable's name, 
(You know what credit that should claim ;) 
And, if successfully I sue, 
A fane will be to Fable due, — 
A thing I would not build — except for you. 



I.— THE ANIMALS SICK OF THE PLAGUE. 

The sorest ill that Heaven hath 

Sent on this lower world in wrath, — 

The plague (to call it by its name,) 
One single day of which 
Would Pluto's ferryman enrich, — 

Waged war on beasts, both wild and tame. 

They died not all, but all were sick : 

No hunting now, by force or trick, 

To save what might so soon expire. 

No food excited their desire ; 

Nor wolf nor fox now watch'd to slay 

The innocent and tender prey. 
The turtles fled ; 

So love and therefore joy were dead. 

The lion council held, and said : 

My friends, I do believe 

This awful scourge, for which we grieve. 

Is for our sins a punishment 

Most righteously by Heaven sent. 

Let us our guiltiest beast resign, 

A sacrifice to wrath divine. 

Perhaps this offering, truly small, 

May gain the life and health of all. 

By history we find it noted 

That lives have been just so devoted. 

Then let us all turn eyes within, 

And ferret out the hidden sin. 

Himself let no one spare nor flatter, 

But make clean conscience in the matter. 
For me, my appetite has play'd the glutton 

Too much and often upon mutton. 

What harm had e'er my victims done 2 
I answer, truly, None. 

Perhaps, sometimes, by hunger press'd, 

I've eat the shepherd with the rest. 

I yield myself, if need there be ; 

And yet I think, in equity, 
Each should confess his sins with me ; 

For laws of right and justice cry, 

The guiltiest alone should die. 
Sire, said the fox, your majesty 

Is humbler than a king should be. 

And over-squeamish in the case. 



169 



02 



40 THE FABLES OF 


LA FONTAINE. [book vii. 


What ! eating stupid sheep a crime ? 


Too cold, too hot, — too black, too white, — 


No, never, sire, at any time. 


Were on her tongue from morn till night. 


It rather was an act of grace, 


The servants mad and madder grew ; 


A mark of honour to their race. 


The husband knew not what to do. 


And as to shepherds, one may swear, 


'Twas, Dear, you never think or care ; 


The fate your majesty describes, 


And, Dear, that price we cannot be.tr ; 


Is recompense less full than fair 


And, Dear, you never stay at home ; 


For such usurpers o'er our tribes. 


And, Dear, I wish you would just come ; — 




Till, finally, such ceaseless dearing 


Thus Renard glibly spoke, 


Upon her husband's patience wearing, 


And loud applause from flatterers broke. 


Back to her sire's he sent his wife, 


Of neither tiger, boar, nor bear, 


To taste the sweets of country life ; 


Did any keen inquirer dare 


To dance at will the country jigs, 


To ask for crimes of high degree ; 


And feed the turkeys, geese, and pigs. 


The fighters, biters, scratchers, all 


In course of time, he hoped his bride 


From every mortal sin were free ; 


Might have her temper mollified ; 


The very dogs, both great and small, 


Which hope he duly put to test. 


Were saints, as far as do^s could be. 


His wife recall' d, said he, 




How went with you your rural rest, 


The ass, confessing in his turn, 


From vexing cares and fashions free ? 


Thus spoke in tones of deep concern : — 


Its peace and quiet did you gain, — 


I happen'd through a mead to pass ; 


Its innocence without a stain \ 


The monks, it's owners, were at mass ; 


Enough of all, said she ; but then 


Keen hunger, leisure, tender grass, 


To see those idle, worthless men 


And add to these the devil too, 


Neglect the flocks, it gave me pain. 


All tempted me the deed to do. 


I told them, plainly, what I thought, 


I browsed the bigness of my tongue ; 


And thus their hatred quickly bought ; 


Since truth must out, I own it wrong. 


For which I do not care — not I. 




Ah, madam, did her spouse reply, 


On this, a hue and cry arose, 


If still your temper's so morose, 


As if the beasts were all his foes : 


And tongue so virulent, that those 


A wolf, haranguing lawyer-wise, 


Who only see you morn and night 


Denounced the ass for sacrifice — 


Are quite grown weary of the sight, 


The bald-pate, scabby, ragged lout, 


What, then, must be your servants' case, 


By whom the plague had come, no doubt. 


Who needs must see you face to face, 


His fault was judged a hanging crime. 


Throughout the day ? 


What ! eat another's grass ? shame ! 


And what must be the harder lot 


The noose of rope and death sublime, 


Of him , I pray, 
Whose days and nights 


For that offence, were all too tame ! 


And soon poor Grizzle felt the same. 


With you must be by marriage rights ? 




Return you to your father's cot. 


Thus human courts acquit the strong, 


If I recall you in my life, 


And doom the weak, as therefore wrong 


Or even wish for such a wife, 




Let Heaven, in my hereafter, send 


* 


Two such, to tease me without end ! 


II.— THE ILL-MARRIED. 




If worth and beauty always wedded were, 


III.— THE RAT RETIRED FROM THE WORLD. 


To-morrow I would seek a wife ; 





But since divorce has come between the pair, 


The sage Levantines have a tale 


Fair forms not being homes of souls as fair, 


About a rat that weary grew 


Excuse my choice of single life. 


Of all the cares which life assail, 




And to a Holland cheese withdrew. 


Of married folks a multitude 


His solitude was there profound, 


I've seen, but still have never rued 


Extending through his world so round. 


Or long'd to quit my solitude. 


Our hermit lived on that within ; 


Yet of our race almost four quarters 


And soon his industry had been 


Brave Hymen's torch — intrepid martyrs. 


With claws and teeth so good, 


Four quarters, also, soon repent — 


That in his novel hermitage, 


Too late, however, to recant. 


He had in store, for wants of age, 


My tale makes one of these poor fellows, 


Both house and livelihood. 


Who sought relief from marriage vows, 


What more could any rat desire ? 


Send back again his tedious spouse, 


He grew fair, fat, and round. 


Contentious, covetous, and jealous. 


God's blessings thus redound 


With nothing pleased or satisfied, 


To those who in His vows retire. 


This restless, comfort-killing bride 


One day this personage devout, 


Some fault in every one descried. 


Whose kindness none might doubt, 


Her good man went to bed too soon, 


Was ask'd, by certain delegates 


Or lay in bed till almost noon. 


That came from Rat-United-States, 



170 



book vii.] THE FABLES OF 


LA FONTAINE. 41 


For some small aid, for they 


Get what you can, and trust for the rest ; 


To foreign parts were on their way, 


The whole is oft lost by seeking the best. 


For succour in the great cat-war. 


Above all things beware of disdain : 


Ratopolis beleaguer'd sore, 


Where, at most, you have little to gain. 


Their whole republic drain'd and poor, 


The people are many that make 


No morsel in their scrips they bore. 


Every day this sad mistake. 


Slight boon they craved, of succour sure 


'Tis not for the herons I put this case, 


In days at utmost three or four. 


Ye featherless people, of the human race. 


My friends, the hermit said, 


— List to another tale as true, 


To worldly things I'm dead. 


And you'll hear the lesson brought home to you. 


How can a poor recluse 




To such a mission be of use ? 


t 


What can he do but pray 




That God will aid it on its way ! 
And so, my friends, it is my prayer 


V.— THE MAID. 


That God will have you in his care. 


His well-fed saintship said no more, 


A certain maid, as proud as fair, 


But in their faces shut the door. 


A husband thought to find 


What think you, reader, is the service 


Exactly to her mind — 


For which I use this niggard rat ? 


Well-form'd and young, genteel in ail*, 


To paint a monk ? No, but a dervise. 


Not cold nor jealous ; — mark this well. 


A monk, I think, however fat, 


Whoe'er would wed this dainty belle 


Must be more bountiful than that. 


Must have, besides, rank, wealth, and wit, 




And all good qualities to fit — 




A man 'twere difficult to get. 




Kind Fate, however, took great care 




To grant, if possible, her prayer. 


IY.— THE HERON. 


There came a-wooinjr. men of note ; 





The maiden thought them all, 


One day, — no matter when or where, — 


By half, too mean and small. 


A long-legg"d heron chanced to fare 


They maiuw me ! the creatures dote : — 


By a certain river's brink, 


Alas ! poor souls ! their case I pity. 


With his long, sharp beak 


(Here mark the bearing of the beauty.) 


Helved on his slender neck ; — 


Some were less delicate than witty ; 


'Twas a fish-spear, you might think. 


Some had the nose too short or long ; 


The water was clear and still, 


In others something else was wrong ; 


The carp and the pike there at will 


Which made each in the maiden's eyes 


Pursued their silent fun, 


An altogether worthless prize. 


Turning up, ever and anon, 


Profound contempt is aye the vice 


A golden side to the sun. 


Which springs from being over-nice, 


With ease might the heron have made 


Thus were the great dismiss'd; and then 


Great profits in his fishing trade. 


Came offers from inferior men. 


So near came the scaly fry, 


The maid, more scornful than before, 


They might be caught by the passer-by. 


Took credit to her tender hoart 


But he thought he better might 


For giving them an open door. 


Wait for a better appetite — 


They think me much in haste to part 


For he lived by rule, and could not eat, 


With independence ! God be thank'd 


Except at his hours, the best of meat. 


My lonely nights bring no regret ; 


Anon his appetite return'd once more ; 


Nor shall I pine, or greatly fret, 


So, approaching again the shore, 


Should I with ancient maids be rank'd. 


He saw some tench taking their leaps, 


Such were the thoughts that pleased the fair : 


Now and then, from their lowest deeps. 


Age made them only thoughts that were. 


With as dainty a taste as Horace's rat, 


Adieu to lovers : — passing years 


He turn'd away from such food as that. 


Awaken doubts and chilling fears. 


What, tench for a heron ! poh ! 


Regret, at last, brings up the train. 


I scorn the thought, and let them go. 


Day after day she sees, with pain, 


The tench refused, there came a gudgeon ; 


Some smile or charm take final flight, 


For all that, said the bird, I budge on. 


And leave the features of a " fright." 


I'll ne'er open my beak, if the gods please, 


Then came a hundred sorts of paint ; 


For such mean little fishes as these. 


But still no trick, nor ruse, nor feint, 


He did it for less ; 


Avail' d to hide the cause of grief, 


For it came to pass, 


Or bar out Time, that graceless thief. 


That not another fish could he see ; 


A house, when gone to wreck and ruin, 


And, at last, so hungry was he, 


May be repaired and made a new one. 


That he thought it of some avail 


Alas ! for ruins of the face 


To find on the bank a single snail. 


No such rebuilding e'er takes place. 


Such is the sure result 


Her daintiness now changed its tune ; 


Of being too difficult. 


Her mirror told her, Marry soon ! 


Would you be strong and great, 


So did a certain wish within, 


Learn to accommodate. 


With more of secrecy than sin, — 



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[book VII. 



A wish that dwells with even prudes, 
Annihilating solitudes. 
This maiden's choice was past belief, 
She soothing down her restless grief, 
And smoothing it of every ripple, 
By marrying a cripple. 



VI.— THE WISHES. 

Within the Great Mogul's domains there are 

Familiar sprites of much domestic use : 
They sweep the house, and take a tidy care 
Of equipage, nor garden work refuse ; 
But, if you meddle with their toil, 
The whole, at once, you're sure to spoil. 
One, near the mighty Ganges flood, 
The garden of a burgher good 

Work'd noiselessly and well ; 
To master, mistress, garden, bore 
A love that time and toil outwore, 

And bound him like a spell. 

Did friendly zephyrs blow, 
The demon's pains to aid ? 
(For so they do, 'tis said.) 

I own I do not know. 
But for himself he rested not, 
And richly bless'd his master's lot. . 
What mark'd his strength of love, 

He lived a fixture on the place, 
In spite of tendency to rove 

So natural to his race. 
But brother sprites conspiring 
With importunity untiring, 
So teased their goblin chief, that he, 
Of his caprice or policy, 
Our sprite commanded to attend 
A house in Norway's farther end, 
Whose roof was snow-clad through the year, 
And shelter' d human kind with deer. 
Before departing to his hosts 
Thus spake this best of busy ghosts : — ■ 
To foreign parts I'm forced to go ! 
For what sad fault I do not know ; — 
But go I must ; a month's delay, 
Or week's perhaps, and I'm away. 
Seize time ; three wishes make at will ; 
For three I'm able to fulfil — 
No more. Quick at their easy task, 
Abundance first these wishers ask — 
Abundance, with her stores unlock'd — 
Barns, coffers, cellars, larder, stock'd — 

Corn, cattle, wine, and money, — 

The overflow of milk and honey. 
But what to do with all this wealth ! 

What inventories, cares, and worry ! 
What wear of temper and of health ! 

Both lived in constant, slavish hurry. 
Thieves took by plot, and lords by loan ; 
The king by tax, the poor by tone. 
Thus felt the curses which 
Arise from being rich, — 

Remove this affluence, they pray ; 

The poor are happier than they 

Whose riches make them slaves. 

Go, treasures, to the winds and waves ; 

Come, goddess of the quiet breast, 

Who sweet'nest toil with rest, 



Dear Mediocrity, return ! 
The prayer was granted as we learn. 
Two wishes thus expended, 

Had simply ended 
In bringing them exactly where, 
When they set out they were. 
So, usually, it fares 
With those who waste in such vain prayers 
The time required by their affairs. 
The goblin laugh'd, and so did they 
However, ere he went away, 
To profit by his offer kind, 
They ask'd for wisdom, wealth of mind, — 
A treasure void of care and sorrow — 
A treasure fearless of the morrow, 



VII— THE LION'S COURT. 

His lion majesty would know, one day, 
What bestial tribes were subject to his sway. 
He therefore gave his vassals, all, 
By deputies a call. 
Despatching everywhere 
A written circular, 
Which bore his seal, and did import 
His majesty would hold his court 
A month most splendidly ; — 
A feast would open his levee, 
Which done, Sir Jocko's sleight 
Would give the court delight. 
By such sublime magnificence 
The king would show his power immense. 

Now were they gather'd all 

Within the royal hall — 
And such a hall ! The charnel scent 
Would make the strongest nerves relent. 
The bear put up his paw to close 
The double access of his nose. 
The act had better been omitted ; 
His throne at once the monarch quitted, 
And sent to Pluto's court the bear, 
To show his delicacy there. 
The ape approved the cruel deed, 
A thorough flatterer by breed. 
He praised the prince's wrath and claws ; 
He praised the odour and its cause. 
Judged by the fragrance of that cave, 
The amber of the Baltic wave, 
The rose, the pink, the hawthorn bank, 
Might with the vulgar garlic rank. 
The mark his flattery overshot, 
And made him share poor Bruin's lot, 
This lion playing in his way, 
The part of Don Caligula. 
The fox approach'd. Now, said the king, 
Apply your nostrils to this thing, 
And let me hear, without disguise, 
The judgment of a beast so wise. 
The fox replied, Your Majesty will please 
Excuse — and here he took good care to sneeze ;- 
Afflicted with a dreadful cold, 
Your majesty need not be told 
My sense of smell is mostly gone. 

From danger thus withdrawn, 
He teaches us the while, 
That one, to gain the smile 



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43 



Of kings, must hold the middle place 
'Tvvixt blunt rebuke and fulsome praise ; 
And sometimes use with easy grace, 
The language of the Norman race*. 



VIIL— THE VULTURES AND THE PIGEONS. 

Mars once made havoc in the air . 
Some cause aroused a quarrel there 
Among the birds ; — not those that sing, 
The courtiers of the merry Spring, 
And by their talk, in leafy bowers, 
Of loves they feel, enkindle ours ; 
Nor those which Cupid's mother yokes 
To whirl on high her golden spokes ; 
But naughty hawk and vulture folks, 
Of hooked beak and talons keen. 
The carcass of a dog, 'tis said, 
Had to this civil carnage led. 
Blood rain'd upon the swarded green, 
And valiant deeds were done, I ween. 
But time and breath would surely fail 
To give the fight in full detail ; 
Suffice to say, that chiefs were slain, 
And heroes strow'd the sanguine plain, 
Till old Prometheus, in his chains, 
Began to hope an end of pains. 
'Twas sport to see the battle rage, 
And valiant hawk with hawk engage ; 
'Twas pitiful to see them fall, — 
Torn, bleeding, weltering, gasping, all. 
Force, courage, cunning, all were plied ; 
Intrepid troops on either side 
No effort spared to populate 
The dusky realms of hungry Fate. 
This woful strife awoke compassion 
Within another feather'd nation, 
Of iris neck and tender heart. 
They tried their hand at mediation — 

To reconcile the foes, or part. 
The pigeon people duly chose 

Ambassadors, who work'd so well 
As soon the murderous rage to quell, 
And stanch the source of countless woes. 
A truce took place, and peace ensued. 
Alas ! the people dearly paid 
Who such pacification made ! 
Those cursed hawks at once pursued 
The harmless pigeons, slew and ate, 
Till towns and fields were desolate. 
Small prudence had the friends of peace 
To pacify such foes as these ! 

The safety of the rest requires 
The bad should flesh each other's spears : 

Whoever peace with them desires 
Had better set them by the ears. 



IX.— THE COACH AND THE FLY. 

Upon a sandy, uphill road, 

Which naked in the sunshine glow'd, 

Six lusty horses drew a coach. 
Dames, monks, and invalids, its load, 



* The Normans are proverbial among the French for 
the oracular non-committal of their responses. — Un 
Normand, says the proverb, a son dit et son dddit. 



On foot, outside, at leisure trode. 

The team, all weary, stopp'd and blow'd : 

Whereon there did a fly approach, 
And, with a vastly business air. 

Cheer'd up the horses with his buzz, — 
Now prick'd them here, now prick'd them there, 

As neatly as a jockey does, — 
And thought the while — he knew 'twas so — 
He made the team and carriage go, — 
On carriage-pole sometimes alighting — 
Or driver's nose — and biting. 
And when the whole did get in motion, 
Confirm'd and settled in the notion, 
. He took, himself, the total glory, — 
Flew back and forth in wondrous hurry, 
And, as he buzz'd about the cattle, 
Seem'd like a sergeant in a battle, 
The files and squadrons leading on 
To where the victory is won. 
Thus charged with all the commonweal, 
This single fly began to feel 
Responsibility too great, 
And cares, a grievous, crushing weight ; 
And made complaint that none would aid 

The horses up the tedious hill — 
The monk his prayers at leisure said-— 

Fine time to pray! — the dames, at will, 
Were singing songs — not greatly needed ! 

Thus in their ears he sharply sang, 

And notes of indignation ran, — 
Notes, after all, not greatly heeded. 
Erelong the coach was on the top : 
Now, said the fly, my hearties, stop 
And breathe ; — I've got you up the hill ; 

And, Messrs. Horses, let me say, 
1 need not ask you if you will 

A proper compensation pay. 

Thus certain ever-bustling noddies 

Are seen in every great affair ; 
Important, swelling, busy-bodies, 

And bores 'tis easier to bear 
Than chase them from their needless care. 



X.— THE DAIRYWOMAN AND THE POT OF MILK. 

A pot of milk upon her cushion'd crown, 
Good Peggy hasten'd to the market town ; 
Short clad and light, with speed she went, 
Not fearing any accident ; 

Indeed, to be the nimbler tripper, 
Her dress that day, 
The truth to say, 
Was simple petticoat and slipper. 
And, thus bedight, 
Good Peggy, light,— 
Her gains already counted, — 
Laid out the cash 
At single dash, 
Which to a hundred eggs amounted. 
Three nests she made, 
Which, by the aid 
Of diligence and care were hatch'd. 
To raise the chicks, 
I'll easy fix, 
Said she, beside our cottage thatch'd. 
The fox must get 
More cunning yet, 



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[book vit. 



Or leave enough to buy ay 
With little care 
And any fare, 
He'll grow quite fat and big ; 
And then the price 
Will be so nice, 
For which the pork will sell ! 
'Twill go quite hard 
But in our yard 
I'll bring a cow and calf to dwell — 

A calf to frisk among the flock ! 
The thought made Peggy do the same : 
And down at once the milk-pot came, 

And perislrd with the shock. 
Calf, cow, and pig, and chicks, adieu ! 
Your mistress' face is sad to view ; — 
She gives a tear to fortune spilt ; 
Then with the downcast look of guilt, 
Home to her husband empty goes, 
Somewhat in danger of his blows. 

Who buildeth not, sometimes, in air 
His cots, or seats, or castles fair ! 
From kings to dairywomen, — all, — 
The wise, the foolish, great and small, — 
Each thinks his waking dream the best. 
Some flattering error fills the breast : 
The world with all its wealth is ours, 
Its honours, dames, and loveliest bower? 
Instinct with valour, when alone, 
I hurl the monarch from his throne ; 
The people, glad to see him dead, 
Elect me monarch in his stead, 
And diadems rain on my head. 
Some accident then calls me back. 
And I'm no more than simple 



XL— THE CERATE AND THE CORPSE. 

A dead man going slowly, sadly, 

To occupy his last abode, 
A curate by him, rather gladly. 
Did holy service on the road. 
Within a coach the dead was borne, 
A robe around him, duly worn, 
Of which I wot he was not proud — 
That ghostly garment call'd a shroud. 
In summer's blaze and winter's blast, 
That robe is changeless — 'tis the last. 
The curate, with his priestly dress on, 

Recited all the church's prayers. 
The psalm, the verse, response, and lesson, 

In fullest style of such affairs. 
Sir Corpse, we beg you, do not fear 
A lack of such things on your bier ; 
They'll give abundance every way, 
Provided only that you pay. 
The Reverend John Cabbagepate 
Watch'd o'er the corpse, as if it were 
A treasure, needing guardian care ; 
And all the while his looks elate, 
This language seem'd to hold : 
The dead will pay so much in gold, 
So much in lights of molten wax, 
So much in other sorts of tax : 

With all he hoped to buy a cask of wine, 

The best which thereabouts produced the vine. 

A pretty niece, on whom he doted, 
And eke his chambermaid, should be promoted, 

By being newly petticoated. 



The coach upset, and dash'd to pieces, 
Cut short these thoughts of wine and nieces ! 
There lay poor John with broken head, 
Beneath the coffin of the dead ! 
His rich parishioner in lead 

Drew on the priest the doom 
Of riding with him to the tomb ! 

The Pot of Milk, and fate 
Of Curate Cabbagepate, 
As emblems, do but give 
The historv of most that live. 



XII.— THE MAX VTHO RAX AFTER FORTUNE. 

AND THE MAN WHO AVaITED FOR 

HER IN HIS BED. 

Who joins not with his restless race 
To give Dame Fortune eager chase ? 
0, had I but some lofty perch, 

From which to view the panting crowd 

Of care-worn dreamers, poor and proud, 
As on they hurry in the search, 
From realm to realm, o'er land and water, 
Of Fate's fantastic, fickle daught jr ! 
Ah ! slaves sincere of flying phantom ! 

Just as their goddess they would c 

The jilt divine eludes their grasp, 
And flits away to Bantam ! 
Poor fellows ! I bewail their lot. 

And here's the comfort of my ditl 
For fools the mark of wrath are not 

So much, I'm sure, as pity. 
That man, say they, and feed their hope, 
Raised cabbages — and now he*s pope ! 
Don't we deserve as rich a prize ? 
Ay, richer ? But hath Fortune eyes ! 
And then the popedom, is it worth 

The price that must be given ] — 
Ftepose ? — the sweetest bliss of earth, 

And, ages since, of gods in heaven ! 
'Tis rarely Fortune's favourites 
Enjoy this cream of all delights. 
Seek not the dame, and she will you — 
A truth which of her sex is true. 

Snug in a country town 

A pah of friends were settled down. 

One sigh'd unceasingly to find 

A fortune better to his mind, 

And, as he chanced his friend to meet, 

Proposed to quit their dull retreat. 

No prophet can to honour come, 

Said he, unless he quits his home ; 

Let's seek our fortune far and wide. 

Seek, if you please, his friend replied ; 

For one, I do not wish to see 

A better clime or destiny. 

I leave the search and prize to you ; 

Your restless humour please pursue ! 

You'll soon come back again. 

I vow to nap it here till then. 

The enterprising, or ambitious, 

Or. if you please, the avaricious, 

Betook him to the road. 
The morrow brought him to a place 
The flaunting goddess ought to grace 

As her particular abode — 



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4 5 



I mean the court whereat he staid, 
And plans for seizing Fortune laid. 

He rose, and dress'd, and dined, and went to 
bed, 
Exactly as the fashion led : 
In short, he did whate'er he could, 
But never found the promised goodc 
Said he, Now somewhere else I'll try — 
And yet I fail'd I know not why ; 
For Fortune here is much at home ; 
To this and that I see her come, 
Astonishingly kind to some. 
And, truly, it is hard to see 
The reason why she slips from me. 
'Tis true, perhaps, as I've been told, 
That spirits here may be too bold. 
To courts and courtiers all I bid adieu ; 
Deceitful shadows they pursue. 
The dame has temples in Surat ; 
I'll go and see them — that is flat. 
To say so was t' embark at once. 
O, human hearts are made of bronze ! 
His must have been of adamant, 
Beyond the power of Death to daunt, 
Who ventured first this route to try, 
And all its frightful risks defy. 
'Tvvas more than once our venturous wight 
Did homeward turn his aching sight, 
When pirates, rocks, and calms and storms, 
Presented death in frightful forms — 
Death sought with pains on distant shores, 

Which soon as wish'd for would have come, 
Had he not left the peaceful doors 

Of his despised but blessed home. 
Arrived, at length, in Hindostan, 
The people told our wayward man 
That Fortune, ever void of plan, 
Dispensed her favours in Japan. 
And on he went, the weary sea 
His vessel bearing lazily. 

This lesson, taught by savage men, 
Was after all his only gain : — 
Contented in thy country stay, 
And seek thy wealth in nature's way. 
Japan refused to him, no less 
Than Hindostan, success ; 
And hence his judgment came to make 
His quitting home a great mistake. 

Renouncing his ungrateful course, 
He hasten'd back with all his force ; 
And when his village came in sight, 
His tears were proof of his delight. 
Ah, happy he, exclaim'd the wight, 
Who, dwelling there with mind sedate, 
Employs himself to regulate 
His ever-hatching, wild desires ; 
Who checks his heart when it aspires 
To know of courts, and seas, and glory, 
More than he can by simple story ; 
Who seeks not o'er the treacherous wave — 
More treacherous Fortune's willing slave — 
The bait of wealth and honours fleeting, 
Held by that goddess, aye retreating. 
Henceforth from home I budge no more ! 
Pop on his sleeping friends he came, 
Thus purposing against the dame, 
And found her sitting at his door. 



XIII.— THE TWO COCKS. 

Two cocks in peace were living, when 
A war was kindled by a hen. 
O love, thou bane of Troy ! 'twas thine 
The blood of men and gods to shed 
Enough to turn the Xanthus red 

As old Port wine ! 
And long the battle doubtful stood : 

(I mean the battle of the cocks ;) 

They gave each other fearful shocks : 
The fame spread o'er the neighbourhood, 
And gather'd all the crested brood. 
And Helens more than one, of plumage bright, 
Led off the victor of that bloody fight. 

The vanquish'd, drooping, fled, 

Conceal' d his batter'd head, 

And in a dark retreat 

Bewail'd his sad defeat. 

His loss of glory and the prize 
His rival now enjoy'd before his eyes. 
While this he every day beheld, 
His hatred kindled, courage swell'd : 
He whet his beak, and flapp'd his wings, 
And meditated dreadful things. 
Waste rage ! His rival flew upon a roof 
And crow'd to give his victory proof. — 

A hawk this boasting heard. 
Now perish'd all his pride, 
As suddenly he died 

Beneath that savage bird. 

In consequence of this reverse, 
The vanquish'd sallied from his hole, 
And took the harem, master sole, 

For moderate penance not the worse. 
Imagine the congratulation, 

The proud and stately leading, 

Gallanting, coaxing, feeding, 
Of wives almost a nation. 

'Tis thus that Fortune loves to flee 

The insolent by victory. 

We should mistrust her when we beat, 

Lest triumph lead us to defeat. 



XIV.— THE INGRATITUDE AND INJUSTICE OF 
MEN TOWARDS FORTUNE. 



A trader on the sea to riches grew ; 
Freight after freight the winds in favour blew ; 
Fate steer'd him clear ; gulf, rock, nor shoal 
Of all his bales exacted toll. 
Of other men the powers of chance and storm 
Their dues collected in substantial form ; 
While smiling Fortune, in her kindest sport, 
Took care to waft his vessels to their port. 
His partners, factors, agents, faithful proved ; 
His goods — tobacco, sugar, spice — 
Were sure to fetch the highest price. 
By fashion and by folly loved, 
His rich brocades and laces, 
And splendid porcelain vases, 
Enkindling strong desires, 
Most readily found buyers. 
In short, gold rain'd where'er he went — 
Abundance, more than could be spent — 
Dogs, horses, coaches, downy bedding — 
His very fasts were like a wedding. 



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[book VII. 



A bosom friend, a look his table giving, 
Inquired whence came such sumptuous living. 
Whence should it come, said he, superb of brow, 
But from the fountain of my knowing how % 
I owe it simply to my skill and care 
In risking only where the marts will bear. 
And now, so sweet his swelling profits were, 
He risk'd anew his former gains : 
Success rewarded not his pains — 
His own imprudence was the cause. 
One ship, ill-freighted, went a wreck ; 
Another felt of arms the lack, 
When pirates, trampling on the laws, 
O'ercame, and bore it off a prize ! 

A third, arriving at its port, 
Had fail'd to sell its merchandise, — ■ 

The style and folly of the court 
Not now requiring such a sort. 
His agents, factors, fail'd ; — in short, 
The man himself, from pomp and princely cheer, 
And palaces, and parks, and dogs, and deer, 
Fell down to poverty most sad and drear. 
His friend, now meeting him in shabby plight, 
Exclaim'd, And whence comes this to pass? 
From Fortune, said the map, alas ! 
Console yourself, replied the friendly wight : 
For, if to make you rich the dame denies, 
She can't forbid you to be wise. 

What faith he gain'd, I do not wis ; 
I know, in every case like this, 
Each claims the credit of his bliss, 

And with a heart ingrate 
Imputes his misery to Fate. 



XV.— THE FORTUNE-TELLERS. 

'Tis oft from chance opinion takes its rise, 
And into reputation multiplies. 

This prologue finds pat applications 

In men of all this world's vocations ; 
For fashion, prejudice, and party strife, 
Conspire to crowd poor justice out of life. 

What can you do to counteract 

This reckless, rushing cataract ? 

'Twill have its course for good or bad, 

As it, indeed, has always had. 

A dame in Paris play'd the Pythoness 
With much of custom, and, of course, success. 
Was any trifle lost, or did 

Some maid a husband wish, 
Or wife of husband to be rid, 

Or either sex for fortune fish, 
Resort was had to her with gold, 
To get the hidden future told. 
Her art was made of various tricks, 
Wherein the dame contrived to mix, 
With much assurance, learned terms. 
Now, chance, of course, sometimes confirms ; 
And just as often as it did, 
The news was anything but hid. 
In shorty though, as to ninety-nine per cent., 
The lady knew not what her answers meant, 
Borne up by ever-babbling Fame, 
An oracle she soon became. 
A garret was this woman's home, 
Till she had gain'd of gold a sum 



That raised the station of her spouse — 
Bought him an office and a house. 
As she could then no longer bear it, 
Another tenanted the garret. 
To her came up the city crowd, — 
Wives, maidens, servants, gentry proud, — ■ 
To ask their fortunes, as before ; 
A Sibyl's cave was on her garret floor : 
Such custom had its former mistress drawn. 
It lasted even when herself was gone. 
It sorely tax'd the present, mistress' wits 
To satisfy the throngs of teasing cits. 
I tell your fortunes ! joke, indeed ! 
Why, gentlemen, I cannot read ! 
What can you, ladies, learn from me, 
Who never learn'd my A, B, C ? 
Avaunt with reasons ! tell she must, — 

Predict as if she understood, 
And lay aside more precious dust 

Than two the ablest lawyers could. 
The stuff that garnish'd out her room — 
Four crippled chairs, a broken broom — 
Help'd mightily to raise her merits, — 
Full proof of intercourse with spirits ! 
Had she predicted e'er so truly, 
On floor with carpet cover'd duly, 

Her word had been a mockery made. 
The fashion set upon the garret. 
Doubt that ! none bold enough to dare it I 
The other woman lost her trade. 

All shopmen know the force of signs, 

And so, indeed, do some divines. 

In palaces, a robe awry 

Has sometimes set the wearer high ; 
And crowds his teaching will pursue 
Who draws the greatest listening crew. 

Ask, if you please, the reason why. 



XVI.— THE CAT, THE WEASEL, AND THE 
YOUNG RABBIT. 

John Rabbit's palace under ground 
Was once by Goody Weasel found. 
She, sly of heart, resolved to seize 
The place, and did so at her ease. 
She took possession while its lord 
Was absent on the dewy sward, 
Intent upon his usual sport, 
A courtier at Aurora's court. 
When he had browsed his fill of clover, 
And cut his pranks all nicely over, 
Home Johnny came to take his drowse, 
All snug within his cellar- house. 
The weasel's nose he came to see, 

Outsticking through the open door. 
Ye gods of hospitality I 

Exclaim'd the creature, vexed sore, 
Must I give up my father's lodge ? 

Ho ! Madam Weasel, please to budge, 
Or, quicker than a weasel's dodge, 

I'll call the rats to pay their grudge ! 
The sharp-nosed lady made reply, 
That she was first to occupy. 
The cause of war was surely small — 
A house where one could only crawl ! 
And though it were a vast domain, 

Said she, I'd like to know what will 
Could grant to John perpetual reign, — ■ 

The son of Peter or of Bill, — 



176 



book vii.] THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 4? 


More than to Paul, or even me. 


At once this novel guide, 


John Rabbit spoke — great lawyer he — 


That saw no more in broad daylight 


Of custom, usage, as the law, 


Than in the murk of darkest night, 


Whereby the house, from sire to son, 


His powers of leading tried, 


As well as all its store of straw, 


Struck trees, and men, and stones, and bricks, 


From Peter came at length to John. 


And led his brother straight to Styx. 


Who could present a claim so good 


And to the same unlovely home, 


As he, the first possessor, could ? 


Some states by such an error come. 


Now, said the dame, let 's drop dispute, 




And go before Raminagrobis, 


— *. — , 


Who'll judge, not only in this suit, 




But tell us truly whose the globe is. 


XVHI— AN ANIMAL IN THE MOON.* 


This person was a hermit cat, 





A cat that play'd the hypocrite, 


While one philosopher affirms 


A saintly mouser, sleek and fat, 


That by our senses we're deceived, 


An arbiter of keenest wit. 


Another swears, in plainest terms, 


John Rabbit in the judge concurr'd, 


The senses are to be believed. 


And off went both their case to broach 


The twain are right. Philosophy 


Before his majesty, the furr'd. 


Correctly calls us dupes whene'er 


Said Clapperclaw, My kits, approach, 


Upon mere senses we rely ; 


And put your noses to my ears : 


But when we wisely rectify 


I'm deaf, almost, by weight of years. 


The raw report of eye or ear, 


And so they did, not fearing aught. 


By distance, medium, circumstance, 


The good apostle, Clapperclaw, 


In real knowledge we advance. 


Then laid on each a well-arm'd paw, 


These things hath nature wisely plann'd — . 


And both to an agreement brought, 


Whereof the proof shall be at hand. 


By virtue of his tusked jaw. 


I see the sun : its dazzling glow 


This brings to mind the fate 


Seems but a hand-breadth here below ; 


Of little kings before the great. 


But should I see it in its home, 




That azure, star-besprinkled dome, 


«. — 


Of all the universe the eye, 


XVII.— THE HEAD AND THE TAIL OF THE 


Its blaze would fill one half the sky. 


SERPENT. 


The powers of trigonometry 





Have set my mind from blunder free. 


Two parts the serpent has — 


The ignorant believe it flat ; 


Of men the enemies — 


I make it round, instead of that. 


The head and tail : the same 


I fasten, fix, on nothing ground it, 


Have won a mighty fame, 


And send the earth to travel round it. 


Next to the cruel Fates ; — 


In short, I contradict my eyes, 


So that, indeed, hence 


And sift the truth from constant lies. 


They once had great debates 


The mind, not hasty at conclusion, 


About precedence. 


Resists the onset of illusion, 


The first had always gone ahead j 


Forbids the sense to get the better, 


The tail had been for ever led ; 


And ne'er believes it to the letter. 


And now to Heaven it pray'd, 


Between my eyes, perhaps too ready, 


And said, 


And ears as much or more too slow, 


0, many and many a league, 


A judge with balance true and steady, 


Dragg'd on in sore fatigue, 


I come, at last, some things to know. 


Behind his back I go. 


Thus when the water crooks a stick, 


Shall he for ever use me so ? 


My reason straightens it as quick — 


Am I his humble servant ; 


Kind Mistress Reason — foe of error, 


No. Thanks to God most fervent ! 


And best of shields from needless terror. 


His brother I was born, 


The creed is common with our race, 


And not his slave forlorn. 


The moon contains a woman's face. 


The self-same blood in both, 


True ! No. Whence, then, the notion, 


I'm just as good as he : 


From mountain top to ocean ? 


A poison dwells in me 


The roughness of that satellite, 


As vix*ulent as doth * 


Its hills and dales, of every grade, 


In him. In mercy, heed 


Effect a change of light and shade 


And grant me this decree, 


Deceptive to our feeble sight ; 


That I in turn may lead — 


So that, besides the human face, 


My brother, follow me. 


All sorts of creatures one might trace. 


My course shall be so wise. 


Indeed, a living beast, I ween, 


That no complaint shall rise. 


Has lately been by England seen. 


With cruel kindness Heaven granted 


All duly placed the telescope, 
And keen observers full of hope, 


The very thing he blindly wanted : 


An animal entirely new, 


To such desires of beasts and men, 




Though often deaf, it was not then. 


* This fable is founded on a fact which occurred in the 
experience of the astronomer Sir Paul Neal, a member of 
the Royal Society of London. 


* An ancient mistake in natural history. 



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[book VIII. 



In that fair planet, came to view. 

Abroad and fast the wonder flew ; — 

Some change had taken place on high, 

Presaging earthly changes nigh ; 

Perhaps, indeed, it might betoken 

The wars that had already broken 

Out wildly o'er the Continent. 

The king to see the wonder went : 

(As patron of the sciences, 

No right to go more plain than his.) 

To him, in turn, distinct and clear, 

This lunar monster did appear. — 

A mouse, between the lenses caged, 

Had caused these wars, so fiercely waged ! 

No doubt the happy English folks 

Laugh'd at it as the best of jokes. 

How soon will Mars afford the chance 

For like amusements here in France ! 

He makes us reap broad fields of glory. 

Our foes may fear the battle-ground ; 

For us, it is no sooner found, 

Than Louis, with fresh laurels crowifd, 
Bears higher up our country's story. 

The daughters, too, of Memory, — 

The Pleasures and the Graces, — 

Still show their cheering faces : 
We wish for peace, but do not sigh. 

The English Charles the secret knows 

To make the most of his repose. 
And more than this, he'll know the way, 

By valour working sword in hand, 

To bring his sea-encircled land 
To share the fight it only sees to-day. 
Yet, could he but this quarrel quell, 
What incense-clouds would grateful swell ! 
What deed more worthy of his fame ! * 
Augustus, Julius — pray, which Ceesar's name 
Shines now on story's page with purest flame ? 
people happy in your sturdy hearts ! 
Say, when shall Peace pack up these bloody darts, 
And send us all, like you, to softer arts ? 



BOOK VIII. 

I.— DEATH AND THE DYING. 

Death never taketh by surprise 
The well-prepared, to wit, the wise — 

They knowing of themselves the time 

To meditate the final change of clime. 

That time, alas ! embraces all 
Which into hours and minutes we divide ; 

There is no part, however small, 
That from this tribute one can hide. 

* This fable appears to have been composed about the 
beginning of the year 1677- The European powers then 
found themselves exhausted by war and desirous of peace. 
England, the only neutral, became, of course, the arbiter 
of the negotiations which ensued at Nimeguen. All the 
belligerent parties invoked her mediation. Charles II., 
however, felt himself exceedingly embarrassed by his 
6ecret connections with Louis XIV., which made him 
desire to prescribe conditions favourable to that monarch ; 
while, on the other hand, he feared the people of England, 
if, treacherous to her interests, he should fail to favour 
the nations allied and combined against France. 



The very moment, oft, which bids 
The heirs of empire see the light 

Is that which shuts their fringed lids 
In everlasting night. 

Defend yourself by rank and wealth, 

Plead beauty, virtue, youth, and health, — 
Unblushing Death will ravish all ; 

The world itself shall pass beneath his pall. 

No truth is better known ; but, truth to say, 
No truth is oftener thrown away. 

A man, well in his second century, 

Complain'd that Death had call'd him suddenly 
Had left no time his plans to fill, 
To balance books, or make his will. 

Death, said he, d'ye call it fair, 
Without a warning to prepare, 
To take a man on lifted leg ? 

O, wait a little while, I beg. 
My wife cannot be left alone ; 

1 must set out my nephew's son ; 
And let me build my house a wing, 
Before you strike, cruel king ! 

Old man, said Death, one thing is sure, — 

My visit here's not premature. 

Hast thou not lived a century ! 

Darest thou engage to find for me, 

In Paris' walls two older men ? 

Has France, among her millions ten \ 

Thou say'st I should have sent thee word 

Thy lamp to trim, thy loins to gird ; 

And then my coming had been meet — 
Thy will engross 'd, 
Thy house complete ! 

Did not thy feelings notify ? 

Did not they tell thee thou must die ? 

Thy taste and hearing are no more ; 

Thy sight itself is gone before ; 

For thee the sun superfluous shines, 

And all the wealth of Indian mines. 

Thy mates I've shown thee dead or dying. 

What's this, indeed, but notifying ? 

Come on, old man, without reply ; 
For to the great and common weal 

It doth but little signify 

Whether thy will shall ever feel 
The impress of thy hand and seal. 

And Death had reason, — ghastly sage ! 

For surely man, at such an age, 

Should part from life as from a feast, 

Returning decent thanks, at least, 

To Him who spread the various cheer, 

And unrepining take his bier ; 

For shun it long no creature can. 

Repinest thou, grey-headed man ? 

See younger mortals rushing by 

To meet their death without a sigh — 

Death full of triumph and of fame, 

But in its terrors still the same. — 

But, ah ! my words are thrown away ! 

Those most like Death most dread his sway. 



II.— THE COBBLER AND THE FINANCIER. 

A cobbler sang from morn till night ; 
'Twas sweet and marvellous to hear, 
His trills and quavers told the ear 

Of more contentment and delight, 
Enjoy 'd by that laborious wight, 



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48 



Than e'er enjoy 'd the sages seven, 
Or any mortals short of heaven. 
His neighbour, on the other hand, 
With gold in plenty at command, 
But little sang, and slumber'd less — 
A financier of great success. 
If e'er he dozed at break of day, 
The cobbler's song drove sleep away ; 
And much he wish'd that Heaven had made 
Sleep a commodity of trade, 
In market sold, like food and drink, 
So much an hour, so much a wink. 
At last, our songster did he call 
To meet him in his princely hall. 
Said he, Now, honest Gregory, 
What may your yearly earnings be ? 
My yearly earnings ! faith, good sir, 
I never go, at once, so far, 
The cheerful cobbler said, 
And queerly scratch'd his head, — ■ 
I never reckon in that way, 
But cobble on from day to day, 
Content with daily bread. 
Indeed ! Well, Gregory, pray, 
What may your earnings be per day ? 
Why, sometimes more and sometimes less. 
The worst of all, I must confess, 
(And but for which our gains would be 
A pretty sight, indeed, to see,) 
Is that the days are made so many 
In which we cannot earn a penny — 
The sorest ill the poor man feels : 
They tread upon each other's heels 
Those idle days of holy saints ! 

And though the year is shingled o'er, 
The parson keeps a-finding more ! 
With smiles provoked by these complaints, 
Replied the lordly financier, 

I'll give you better cause to sing. 
These hundred pounds I hand you here 

Will make you happy as a king. 
Go, spend them with a frugal heed ; 
They'll long supply your every need. 
The cobbler thought the silver more 
Than he had ever dream'd, before, 
The mines for ages could produce, 
Or world, with all its people, use. 
He took it home, and there did hide, 
And with it laid his joy aside. 
No more of song, no more of sleep, 
But cares, suspicions in their stead, 
And false alarms, by fancy fed. 
His eyes and ears their vigils keep, 
And not a cat can tread the floor 
But seems a thief slipp'd through the door. 
At last, poor man ! 
Up to the financier he ran, — 
Then in his morning nap profound : 
0, give me back my songs, cried he, 
And sleep, that used so sweet to be, 
And take the money, every pound ! 



III.— THE LION, THE WOLF, AND THE POX. 

A lion, old and impotent with gout, 
Would have some cure for age found out. 
Impossibilities, on all occasions, 
With kings, are rank abominations. 



This king, from every species, — 

For each abounds in every sort, — 
Call'd to his aid the leeches. 

They came in throngs to court, 
From doctors of the highest fee 
To nostrum-quacks without degree,- — 
Advised, prescribed, talk'd learnedly ; 

But with the rest 
Came not Sir Cunning Fox, M.D. 
Sir Wolf the royal couch attended, 

And his suspicions there express'd. 
Forthwith his majesty, offended, 
Resolved Sir Cunning Fox should come, 
And sent to smoke him from his home. 
He came, was duly usher'd in, 
And, knowing where Sir Wolf had been, 

Said, Sire, your royal ear 

Has been abused, I fear, 

By rumours false and insincere ; 
To wit, that I've been self-exempt 
From coming here, through sheer contempt. 
But, sire, I've been on pilgrimage, 

By vow expressly made, 

Your royal health to aid, 
And, on my way, met doctors sage, 
In skill the wonder of the age, 

Whom carefully I did consult 

About that great debility 

Term'd in the books senility, 
Of which you fear, with reason, the result. 
You lack, they say, the vital heat, 
By age extreme become effete. 
Drawn from a living wolf, the hide 
Should warm and smoking be applied. 
The secret's good, beyond a doubt, 
For nature's weak, and wearing out. 
Sir Wolf,- here, won't refuse to give 
His hide to cure you, as I live. 
The king was pleased with this advice. 
Flay'd, jointed, served up in a trice, 
Sir Wolf first wrapp'd the monarch up, 
Then furnish'd him whereon to sup. 

Beware, ye courtiers, lest ye gam, 
By slander's arts, less power than pain ; 
For in the world where ye are living, 
A pardon no one thinks of giving. 



IV.— THE POWER OP FABLES. 

TO 31. DE BARILLON*. 

Can diplomatic dignity 

To simple fables condescend ? 
Can I your famed benignity 

Invoke, my muse an ear to lend ? 
If once she dares a high intent, 
Will you esteem her impudent ? 
Your cares are weightier, indeed, 
Than listening to the sage debates 
Of rabbit or of weasel states : 
So, as it pleases, burn or read ; 
But save us from the woful harms 
Of Europe roused in hostile arms. 
That from a thousand other places 
Our enemies should show their faces, 
May well be granted with a smile, 
But not that England's Isle 
* Ambassador to the court of St. James. 



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[book VIII. 



Our friendly kings should set 
Their fatal blades to whet. 
Comes not the time for Louis to repose ? 
What Hercules, against these hydra foes, 
"Would not grow weary ? Must new heads oppose 
His ever- waxing energy of blows ? 
Now, if your gentle, soul-persuasive powers, 
As sweet as mighty in this world of ours, 
Can soften hearts, and lull this war to sleep*, 
I'll pile your altars with a hundred sheep ; 
And this is not a small affair 
For a Parnassian mountaineer. 
Meantime, (if you have time to spare,) 

Accept a little incense-cheer. 
A homely, but an ardent prayer, 

And tale in verse, I give you here. 
I'll only say, the theme is fit for you. 

With praise, which envy must confess 
To worth like yours is justly due, 

No man on earth needs propping less. 

In Athens, once, that city fickle, 

An oratorf, awake to feel 
His country in a dangerous pickle, 
Would sway the proud republic's heart, 

Discoursing of the common weal, 
As taught by his tyrannic art. 
The people listen'd — not a word. 
Meanwhile the orator recurr'd 
To bolder tropes — enough to rouse 
The dullest blocks that e'er did drowse ; 
He clothed in life the very dead, 
And thunder'd all that could be said. 

The wind received his breath, 

As to the ear of death. 
That beast of many heads and lightj, 

The crowd, accustom'd to the sound 
Was all intent upon a sight — 
A brace of lads in mimic fight. 

A new resource the speaker found. 
Ceres, in lower tone said he, 
Went forth her harvest fields to see : 
An eel, as such a fish might be, 
And swallow, were her company. 
A river check'd the travellers three. 
Two cross' d it soon without ado ; 
The smooth eel swam, the swallow flew. — 
Outcried the crowd, 
With voices loud — 

And Ceres— what did she ? 
Why, what she pleased ; but first 
Yourselves she justly cursed — 

A people puzzling aye your brains 
With children's tales and children's play, 
While Greece puts on her steel array, 

To save her limbs from tyrant chains ! 
Why ask you not what Philip does ? 
At this reproach the idle buzz 
Fell to the silence of the grave, 
Or moonstruck sea without a wave, 
And every eye and ear awoke 
To drink the words the patriot spoke. 

* The parliament of England was determined that, in 
case Louis XIV. did not make peace with the allies, 
Charles II. should join them to make war on France, 
•f- Demades. 

$ Horace, speaking of the Roman people, said, 
" Bellua multorum est capitum." 

Epist. I. Book I. 76. 



This feather stick in Fable's cap. 
We're all Athenians, mayhap ; 
And I, for one, confess the sin ; 
For, while I write this moral here, 
If one should tell that tale so queer 
Ycleped, I think, " The Ass's Skin," 
I should not mind my work a pin. 
The world is old, they say ; I don't deny it ;- 
But, infant still 
In taste and will, 
Whoe'er would teach, must gratify it. 



V— THE MAN AND THE FLEA. 

Impertinent, we tease and weary Heaven 

With prayers which would insult mere mortals 

even. 
'Twould seem that not a god in all the skies 
From our affairs must ever turn his eyes, 
And that the smallest of our race 
Could hardly eat, or wash his face, 
Without, like Greece and Troy for ten years' space, 
] Embroiling all Olympus in the case. 

A flea some blockhead's shoulder bit, 
And then his clothes refused to quit. 
Hercules, he cried, you ought to purge 
The world of this far worse than hydra scourge. 
Jupiter, what are your bolts about, 
They do not put these foes of mine to rout ? 

To crush a flea, this fellow's fingers under, 

The gods must lend the fool their club and thunder. 



VL— THE WOMEN AND THE SECRET. 

There's nothing like a secret weighs ; 

Too heavy 'tis for women tender ; 
And, for this matter, in my days, 

I've seen some men of female gender. 

To prove his wife, a husband cried, 

(The night he knew the truth would hide,) 

Heavens ! what's tins ? O dear — I beg — 
I'm torn — ! ! I've laid an egg ! 

An egg 1 Why, yes, it's gospel-true. 
Look here — see — feel it, fresh and new ; 
But, wife, don't mention it, lest men 
Should laugh at me, and call me hen ; 

Indeed, don't say a word about it. 
On this, as other matters, green and young, 

The wife, all wonder, did not doubt it, 
And pledged herself by Heaven to hold her tongue. 
Her oath, however, fled the light 
As quick as did the shades of night. 
Before Dan Phcebus waked to labour, 
The dame was off to see a neighbour. 
My friend, she said, half-whispering, 
There's come to pass the strangest thing — 
If you should tell, 'twould turn me out of door : — 
My husband's laid an egg as big as four ! 
As you would taste of heaven's bliss, 
Don't tell a living soul of this. 

1 tell ! why if yon knew a thing about me, 
You wouldn't for an instant doubt me ; 



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51 



Your confidence Til ne'er abuse. 
The layer's wife went home relieved ; 

The other broil'd to tell the news ; 
You need not ask if she believed. 
A dame more busy could not be ; 
In twenty places, ere her tea, 
Instead of one egg, she said three ! 

Nor was the story finish'd here : 
A gossip, still more keen than she, 

Said four, and spoke it in the ear — 
A caution truly little worth, 
Applied to all the ears on earth. 
Of eggs, the number*, thanks to Fame, 

As on from mouth to mouth she sped, 

Had grown a hundred, soothly said, 
Ere Sol had quench' d his golden flame ! 



YE- THE DOG THAT CARRIED HIS MASTER'S 
DINNER. 

Our eyes are not made proof against the fair, 
Nor hands against the touch of gold. 

Fidelity is sadly rare, 
And has been from the days of old. 

"Well taught his appetite to check, 
And do full many a handy trick, 
A dog was trotting, light and quick, 

His master's dinner on his neck. 
A temperate, self-denying dog was he, 
More than with such a load he liked to be. 
But still he was, while many such as we 
Would not have scrupled to make free. 
Strange that to dogs a virtue you may teach, 
Which, do your best, to men you vainly preach ! 
This dog of ours, thus richly fitted out, 
A mastiff met, who wish'd the meat, no doubt. 
To get it was less easy than he thought ; 

The porter laid it down and fought. 

Meantime some other dogs arrive : 

Such dogs are always thick enough, 

And, fearing neither kick nor cuff, 
Upon the public thrive. 

Our hero, thus o'ermatch'd and press'd, — 

The meat in danger manifest, — 

Is fain to share it with the rest ; 

And, looking very calm and wise, 

No anger, gentlemen, he cries : 

My morsel will myself suffice ; 

The rest shall be your welcome prize. 

With this, the first his charge to violate, 

He snaps a mouthful from his freight. 

Then follow mastiff, cur, and pup, 

Till all is cleanly eaten up. 

Not sparingly the party feasted, 

And not a dog of all but tasted. 

In some such manner men abuse 
Of towns and states the revenues. 
The sheriffs, aldermen, and mayor, 
Come in for each a liberal share. 
The strongest gives the rest example : 
'Tis sport to see with what a zest 
They sweep and lick the public chest 
Of all its funds, however ample. 
If any common weal's defender 
Should dare to say a single word, 
He's shown his scruples are absurd, 
And finds it easy to surrender — 
Perhaps, to be the first offender. 



VIH.— THE JOKER AND THE FISHES. 

Some seek for jokers ; I avoid. 
A joke must be, to be enjoy 'd, 
Of wisdom's words, by wit employ'd. 
God never meant for men of sense, 
The wits that joke to give offence. 

Perchance of these I shall be able 
To show you one preserved in fable. 
A joker at a banker's table, 
Most amply spread to satisfy 

The height of epicurean wishes, 

Had nothing near but little fishes. 
So, taking several of the fry, 
He whisper'd to them very nigh, 
And seem'd to listen for reply. 
The guests much wonder'd what it meant, 
And stared upon him all intent. 
The joker, then with sober face, 
Politely thus explain'd the case : 
A friend of mine, to India bound, 
Has been, I feai*, 
Within a year, 
By rocks or tempests wreck'd and drown'd. 
I ask'd these strangers from the sea 
To tell me where my friend might be. 

But all replied they were too young 
To know the least of such a matter — 
The older fish could tell me better. 

Pray, may I hear some older tongue I 
What relish had the gentlefolks 
For such a sample of his jokes, 
Is more than I can now relate. 
They put, I'm sure, upon his plate, 
A monster of so old a date, 
He must have known the names and fate 
Of all the daring voyagers, 
Who, following the moon and stars, 
Have, by mischances, sunk their bones 
Within the realms of Davy Jones ; 
And who, for centuries, had seen, 
Far down, within the fathomless, 
Where whales themselves are sceptreless, 
The ancients in their halls of green. 



IX.— THE RAT AND THE OYSTER. 



A country rat, of little brains, 

Grown weary of inglorious rest, 
Left home with all its straws and grains, 

Resolved to know beyond his nest. 
When peeping through the nearest fence, 
How big the world is, how immense ! 
He cried ; there rise the Alps, and that 
Is doubtless famous Ararat. 
His mountains were the works of moles, 
Or dirt thrown up in digging holes ! 
Some days of travel brought him where 
The tide had left the oysters bare. 
Since here our traveller saw the sea, 
He thought these shells the ships must be. 
My father was, in truth, said he, 

A coward, and an ignoramus ; 
He dared not travel : as for me, 

I've seen the ships and ocean famous ; 
Have cross'd the deserts without drinking, 
And many dangerous streams unshrinking ; 



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[book VIII. 



Such things I know from having seen and felt them. 
And, as lie went, in tales he proudly dealt them, 
Not being of those rats whose knowledge 
Comes by their teeth on books in college. 
Among the shut-up shell-fish, one 
Was gaping widely at the sun ; 
It breathed, and drank the air's perfume, 
Expanding, like a flower in bloom. 

Both white and fat, its meat 

Appear'd a dainty treat. 
Our rat, when he this shell espied, 
Thought for his stomach to provide. 
If not mistaken in the matter, 
Said he, no meat was ever fatter, 
Or in its flavour half so fine, 
As that on which today I dine. 
Thus full of hope, the foolish chap 

Thrust in his head to taste, 
And felt the pinching of a trap — 

The oyster closed in haste. 

We're first instructed, by this case, 
That those to whom the world is new 
Are wonder-struck at every view ; 

And, in the second place, 
That the marauder finds his match, 
And he is caught who thinks to catch. 



X— THE BEAR AND THE AMATEUR GARDENER. 

A certain mountain beat*, unlick'd and rude, 

By fate confined within a lonely wood, 

A new Bellerophon, whose life, 

Knew neither comrade, friend, nor wife, — 

Became insane ; for reason, as we term it. 

Dwells never long with any hermit. 

'Tis good to mix in good society, 

Obeying rules of due propriety; 

And better yet to be alone ; 

But both are ills when overdone. 

No animal had business where 

All grimly dwelt our hermit bear ; 

Hence, bearish as he was, he grew 

Heart-sick, and long'd for something new. 

While he to sadness was addicted, 
An aged man, not far from there, 

Was by the same disease afflicted. 
A garden was his favourite care, — 
Sweet Flora's priesthood, light and fair, 

And eke Pomona's — ripe and red 

The presents that her fingers shed. 

These two employments, true, are sweet 

When made so by some friend discreet. 

The gardens, gayly as they look, 

Talk not, (except in this my book ;) 

So, tiring of the deaf and dumb, 

Our man one morning left his home 
Some company to seek, 
That had the power to speak. — 
The bear, with thoughts the same, 
Down from his mountain came ; 

And in a solitary place, 

They met each other, face to face. 

It would have made the boldest tremble ; 
What did our man ? To play the Gascon 
The safest seem'd. He put the mask on, 

His fear contriving to dissemble. 



The bear, unused to compliment, 
Growl'd bluntly, but with good intent, 
Come home with me. The man replied : 
Sir Bear, my lodgings, nearer by, 
In yonder garden you may spy, 
Where, if you'll honour me the while, 
We'll break our fast in rural style. 
I've fruits and milk, — unworthy fare, 
It may be, for a wealthy bear ; 
But then I offer what I have. 
The bear accepts, with visage grave, 
But not unpleased ; and on their way, 
They grow familiar, friendly, gay. 
Arrived, you see them side by side, 
As if their friendship had been tried. 
To a companion so absurd, 
Blank solitude were well preferr'd, 
Yet, as the bear scarce spoke a word, 
The man was left quite at his leisure 
To trim his garden at his pleasure. 
Sir Bruin hunted— always brought 
His friend whatever game he caught ; 
But chiefly aim'd at driving flies — 
Those bold and shameless parasites, 
That vex us with their ceaseless bites — 
From off our gardener's face and eyes. 
One day, while, stretch'd upon the ground 
The old man lay, in sleep profound, 
A fly that buzz'd around his nose, — 
And bit it sometimes, I suppose, — 
Put Bruin sadly to his trumps. 
At last, determined, up he jumps ; 
I'll stop thy noisy buzzing now, 
Says he ; I know precisely how. 
No sooner said than done. 
He seized a paving-stone ; 
And by his modus operandi 
Did both the fly and man die. 

A foolish friend may cause more woe 
Than could, indeed, the wisest foe. 



XL— THE TWO FRIENDS. 

Two friends, in Monomotapa, 

Had all their interests combined. 

Their friendship, faithful and refined, 
Our country can't exceed, do what it may. 

One night, when potent Sleep had laid 

All still within our planet's shade, 

One of the two gets up alarm'd, 
Buns over to the other's palace, 
And hastily the servants rallies. 

His startled friend, quick arm'd, 
With purse and sword his comrade meets, 
And thus right kindly greets : — 

Thou seldom com'st at such an hour ; 
I take thee for a man of sounder mind 
Than to abuse the time for sleep design'd. 

Hast lost thy purse, by Fortune's power ? 
Here's mine. Hast suffer'd insult, or a blow 
I've here my sword — to avenge it let us go. 

No, said his friend, no need I feel 

Of either silver, gold, or steel ; 

I thank thee for thy friendly zeal. 

In sleep I saw thee rather sad, 

And thought the truth might be as bad ; 



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Unable to endure the fear, 

That cursed dream has brought me here. 

Which think you, reader, loved the most ! 
If* doubtful this, one truth may be proposed 
There's nothing sweeter than a real friend : 
Not only is he prompt to lend — 
An angler delicate, he fishes 
The very deepest of your wishes, 
And spares your modesty the task 
His friendly aid to ask. 
A dream, a shadow, wakes his fear, 
When pointing at the object dear. 



XII.— THE HOG, THE GOAT, AND THE SHEEP. 

A goat, a sheep, and porker fat, 

All to the market rode together. 
Their own amusement was not that 
Which caused their journey thither. 
Their coachman did not mean to "set them down" 
To see the shows and wonders of the town. 
The porker cried, in piercing squeals, 
As if with butchers at his heels. 
The other beasts, of milder mood, 
The cause by no means understood. 
They saw no harm, and wonder'd why 
At such a rate the hog should cry. 
Hush there, old piggy ! said the man, 
And keep as quiet as you can. 
What wrong have you to squeal about, 
And raise this devilish, deafening shout ? 
These stiller persons at your side 
Have manners much more dignified. 

Pray, have you heard 

A single word 
Come from that gentleman in wool ? 
That proves him wise. That proves him fool, 
The testy hog replied ; 

For did he know 

To what we go, 
He'd cry almost to split his throat; 
So would her ladyship the goat. 
They only think to lose with ease, 
The goat her milk, the sheep his fleece : 
They're, maybe, right ; but as for me, 
This ride is quite another matter. 
Of service only on the platter, 
My death is quite a certainty. 
Adieu, my dear old piggery ! 
The porker's logic proved at once 
Himself a prophet and a dunce. 

Hope ever gives a present ease, 

But fear beforehand kills : 
The wisest he who least foresees 
Inevitable ills. 



XIII.— THYItSIS AND AMARANTH. 

FOR MADEMOISELLE DE SILLERY. 

I had the Phrygian quit, 
Charm' d with Italian wit*; 
But a divinity 
Would on Parnassus see 
A fable more from me. 

* Referring to his Tales, in which he had borrowed 
many subjects from Boccaccio. 



Such challenge to refuse, 
Without a good excuse, 
Is not the way to use 
Divinity or muse. 

Especially to one 
Of those who truly are, 
By force of being fair, 
Made queens of human will, 

A thing should not be done 
In all respects so ill. 
For, be it known to all, 
From Sillery the call 
Has come for bird, and beast, 
And insects, to the least, 
To clothe their thoughts sublime 
In this my simple rhyme. 
In saying Sillery, 
All's said that need to be. 
Her claim to it so good, 

Few fail to give her place 

Above the human race : 
How could they, if they would ? 

Now come we to our end : — 

As she opines my tales 
Are hard to comprehend j 

For even genius fails 
Some things to understand ; 
So let us take in hand 
To make unnecessary, 
For once, a commentary. 
Come shepherds now, — and rhyme we afterwards 
The talk between the wolves and fleecy herds. 

To Amaranth, the young and fair, 
Said Thyrsis, once, with serious air, — 
0, if you knew, like me, a certain ill, 
With which we men are harm'd, 
As well as strangely charm'd, 
No boon from Heaven your heart could like it fill! 
Please let me name it in your ear, — 
A harmless word, — you need not fear. 
Would I deceive you, you, for whom 1 bear 
The tenderest sentiments that ever were ? 

Then Amaranth replied, 
What is its name % I beg you, do not hide. 
'Tis love. — The word is beautiful ! reveal 
Its signs and symptoms, how it makes one feel. — 
Its pains are ecstacies. So sweet its stings, 
The nectar-cups and incense-pots of kings, 
Compared, are flat, insipid things. 
One strays all lonely in the wood — 
Leans silent o'er the placid flood, 
And there with great complacency, 
A certain face can see — 
'Tis not one's own — but image fair, 
Retreating, 
Fleeting, 
Meeting, 
Greeting, 
Following everywhere. 
For all the rest of human kind, 
One is as good in short as blind. 
There is a shepherd wight, I ween, 
Well known upon the village green, 
Whose voice, whose name, whose turning of tilt 

hinge 
Excites upon the cheek a richer tinge — 
The thought of whom is signal for a sigh — 
The breast that heaves it knows not why — 



183 



64 THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. [book viii. 


Whose face the maiden fears to see, 


Of such a wretch profane 


Yet none so welcome still as he. — 


Our sacred claws to stain. 


Here Amaranth cut short his speech: 


Wolves, let a sacrifice be made, 


! ! is that the evil which you preach % 


Avenge your mistress' awful shade. 


To me I think it is no stranger ; 


Sire, did the stag reply, 


I must have felt its power and danger. 


The time for tears is quite gone by ; 


Here Thyrsis thought his end was gain'd, 


For in the flowers, not far from here, 


When further thus the maid explain'd : 


Your worthy consort did appear ; 


'Tis just the very sentiment 


Her form, in spite of my surprise, 


Which I have felt for Clidamant ! 


I could not fail to recognise. 


The other, vex'd and mortified, 


My friend, said she, beware 


Now bit his lips, and nearly died. 


Lest funeral pomp about my bier, 


Like him are multitudes, who when 
Their own advancement they have meant, 


When I shall go with gods to share, 
Compel thine eye to drop a tear. 
With kindred saints I rove 


Have play'd the game of other men. 


In the Elysian grove, 




And taste a sort of bliss 
Unknown in worlds like this. 




XIV— THE FUNERAL OF THE LIONESS. 


Still, let the royal sorrow flow 




Its proper season here below ; 


The lion's consort died : 


'Tis not unpleasing, I confess. 


Crowds, gather'd at his side, 
Must needs console the prince, 


The king and court scarce hear him out. 


Up goes the loud and welcome shout — 


And thus their loyalty evince 
By compliments of coui'se, 


A miracle ! an apotheosis ! 


And such at once the fashion is, 


Which make affliction worse. 


So far from dying in a ditch, 


Officially he cites 


The stag retires with presents rich. 


His realm to funeral rites. 
At such a time and place ; 
His marshals of the mace 
Would order the affair. 
Judge you if all came there. 


Amuse the ear of royalty 
With pleasant dreams, and flattery, — 
No matter what you may have done, 
Nor yet how high its wrath may run, — 
The bait is swallow'd — object won. 


Meantime, the prince gave way 


To sorrow night and day. 




With cries of wild lament 


♦ 


His cave he well-nigh rent. 




And from his courtiers far and near. 


XV.-THE RAT AND THE ELEPHANT. 


Sounds imitative you might hear. 







One's own importance to enhance, 


The court a country seems to me, 


Inspirited by self-esteem, 


Whose people are no matter what, — 


Is quite a common thing in France ; 


Sad gay, indifferent, or not, — 


A French disease it well might seem. 


As suits the will of majesty ; 


The strutting cavaliers of Spain 


Or, if unable so to be, 


Are in another manner vain. 


Their task it is to seem it all — 


Their pride has more insanity, 


Chameleons, monkeys, great and small. 


More silliness our vanity. 


'Twould seem one spirit serves a thousand bodies — 


Let's shadow forth our own disease — 


A paradise, indeed, for soulless noddies. 


Well worth a hundred tales like these. 


But to our tale again : . 


A rat, of quite the smallest size, 


The stag graced not the funeral train ; 


Fix'd on an elephant his eyes, 


Of tears his cheeks bore not a stain ; 


And jeer'd the beast of high descent 


For how could such a thing have been, 


Because his feet so slowly went. 


When death avenged him on the queen, 


Upon his back, three stories high, 


Who, not content with taking one, 


There sat, beneath a canopy, 


Had choked to death his wife and son ? 


A certain sultan of renown, 


The tears, in truth, refused to run. 


His dog, and cat, and concubine, 


A flatterer, who watch'd the while, 


His parrot, servant, and his wine, 


Affirm'd that he had seen him smile. 


AH pilgrims to a distant town. 


If, as the wise man somewhere saith, 


The rat profess'd to be amazed 


A king's is like a lion's wrath, 


That all the people stood and gazed 


What should King Lion's be but death ? 


With wonder, as he pass'd the road, 


The stag however could not read ; 


Both at the creature and his load. 


Hence paid this proverb little heed, 


As if, said he, to occupy 


And walk'd, intrepid, towards the throne ; 


A little more of land or sky 


When thus the king, in fearful tone : 


Made one, in view of common sense, 


Thou caitiff of the wood ! 


Of greater worth and consequence ! 


PresunVst to laugh at such a time ? 


What see ye, men, in this parade, 


Joins not thy voice the mournful chime ? 


That food for wonder need be made ? 


We suffer not the blood 


The bulk which makes a child afraid? 



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BOOK VIII.] 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



In truth, I take myself to be, 
In all respects, as good as he. 
And further might have gone his vaunt ; 

But, darting down, the eat 

Convinced him that a rat 
Is smaller than an elephant. 



XVI.-THE HOROSCOPE. 

On death we mortals often run, 
Just by the roads we take to shun. 

A father's only heir, a son, 

Was over-loved and doted on 

So greatly, that astrology 

Was question'd what his fate might be. 

The man of stars this caution gave — 

That, until twenty years of age, 

No lion, even in a cage, 
The boy should see, — his life to save. 
The sire, to silence every fear 
About a life so very dear, 
Forbade that any one should let 
His son beyond his threshold get. 
Within his palace walls, the boy 
Might all that heart could wish enjoy — 
Might with his mates walk, leap, and run, 
And frolic in the wildest fun. 
When come of age to love the chase, 

That exercise was oft depicted 
To him as one that brought disgrace, 

To which but blackguards were addicted. 
But neither warning nor derision 
Could change his ardent disposition. 
The youth, fierce, restless, full of blood, 
Was prompted by the boiling flood 
To love the dangers of the wood. 
The more opposed, the stronger grew 
His mad desire. The cause he knew, 
For which he was so closely pent ; 

And as, where'er he went, 
In that magnificent abode, 
Both tapestry and canvas show'd 
The feats he did so much admire, 
A painted lion roused his ire. 
Ah, monster ! cried he, in his rage 
'Tis you that keep me in my cage. 

With that, he clinch'd his fist, 

To strike the harmless beast — 

And did his hand impale 

Upon a hidden nail ! 

And thus this cherish'd head, 

For which the healing art 

But vainly did its part, 
Was hurried to the dead 

By caution blindly meant 

To shun that sad event. 

The poet iEschylus, 'tis said, 

By much the same precaution bled. 
A conj uror foretold 

A house wouid crush him in its fall ; — 
Forth sallied he, though old, 

From town and roof-protected hall, 
And took his lodgings, wet or dry, 
Abroad, beneath the open sky. 
An eagle, bearing through the air 
A tortoise for her household fare, 



Which first she wish'd to break, 
The creature dropp'd, by sad mistake, 
Plump on the poet's forehead bare. 
As if it were a naked rock — 
To iEschylus a fatal shock ! 

From these examples, it appears, 
This art, if true in any wise, 

Makes men fulfil the very fears 
Engender' d by its prophecies. 
But from this charge I justify, 
By branding it a total lie. 
I don't believe that Nature's powers 
Have tied her hands or pinion'd ours. 
By marking on the heavenly vault 
Our fate without mistake or fault. 
That fate depends upon conjunctions 
Of places, persons, times, and tracks, 

And not upon the functions 
Of more or less of quacks. 
A king and clown beneath one planet's nod 
Are born ; one wields a sceptre, one a hod. 
But it is Jupiter that wills it so ! 

And who is he ? A soulless clod. 
How can he cause such different powers to flew 
Upon the aforesaid mortals here below \ 
And how, indeed, to this far distant ball 
Can he impart his energy at all ! — 
How pierce the ether deeps profound, 
The sun and globes that whirl around ? 
A mote might turn his potent ray 
For ever from its earthward way. 
Will find it, then, in starry cope, 
The makers of the horoscope ? 
The war with which all Europe's now afflicted — 
Deserves it not by them to've been predicted \ 
Yet heard we not a whisper of it, 
Before it came, from any prophet. 
The suddenness of passion's gush, 
Of wayward life the headlong rush, — 
Permit they that the feeble ray 
Of twinkling planet, far away, 
Should trace our winding, zigzag course ? 
And yet this planetary force, 
As steady as it is unknown, 
These fools would make our guide alone — 
Of all our varied life the source ! 
Such doubtful facts as I relate — 
The petted child's and poet's fate — 
Our argument may well admit. 

The blindest man that lives in France, 

The smallest mark would doubtless hit — 

Once in a thousand times — by chance. 



XVII.— THE ASS AND THE DOG. 

Dame Nature, our respected mother, 
Ordains that we should aid each other. 

The ass this ordinance neglected, 
Though not a creature ill-affected. 
Along the road a dog and he 
One master follow , d silently. 
Their master slept : meanwhile, the ass 
Applied his nippers to the grass, 
Much pleased in such a place to stop, 
Though there no thistle he could crop. 
He would not be too delicate, 
Nor spoil a dinner for a plate, 



185 



p 2 



56 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



[book VIII. 



Which, but for that, his favourite dish, 
Were all that any ass could wish. 

My dear companion, Towser said, — 
'Tis as a starving dog I ask it, — 
Pray lower down your loaded basket, 

And let me get a piece of bread. 
No answer — not a word !— indeed, 
The truth was, our Arcadian steed 
Fear'd lest, for every moment's flight, 
His nimble teeth should lose a bite. 
At last, I counsel you, said he, to wait 

Till master is himself awake, 

Who then, unless I much mistake, 
Will give his dog the usual bait. 
Meanwhile, there issued from the wood 
A creature of the wolfish brood, 
Himself by famine sorely pinch'd. 
At sight of him the donkey flinch'd, 
And begg'd the dog to give him aid. 
The dog budged not, but answer made,- 
I counsel thee, my friend, to run, 
Till master's nap is fairly done ; 
There can, indeed, be no mistake, 
That he will very soon awake ; 
Till then, scud off with all your might ; 
And should he snap you in your flight, 
This ugly wolf, — why, let him feel 
The greeting of your well-shod heel. 
I do not doubt, at all, but that 
Will be enough to lay him flat. 

But ere he ceased it was too late ; 

The ass had met his cruel fate. 

Thus selfishness we reprobate. 



XVHI.-THE PASHAW AND THE MERCHANT. 

A trading Greek, for want of law, 
Protection bought of a pashaw ; 
And like a nobleman he paid, 
Much rather than a man of trade — 
Protection being, Turkish-wise, 
A costly sort of merchandise. 
So costly was it, in this case, 
The Greek complain'd, with tongue and face. 

Three other Turks, of lower rank, 
Would guard his substance as their own, 

And all draw less upon his bank, 
Than did the great pashaw alone. 
The Greek their offer gladly heard, 
And closed the bargain with a word. 
The said pashaw was made aware, 
And counsel'd with a prudent care, 
These rivals to anticipate, 
By sending them to heaven's gate, 
As messengers to Mahomet — 
Which measure should he much delay, 
Himself might go the self-same way, 
By poison offer'd secretly, 
Sent on, before his time, to be 
Protector to such arts and trades 
As flourish in the world of shades. 

On this advice, the Turk — no gander 

Behaved himself like Alexander*. 

* Who took the medicine presented to him by his phy- 
sician Philip, the moment after he had received a letter 
announcing that that very man designed to poison him.>— 
Arrian, L. U. Chap. XIV. 



Straight to the merchant's, firm and stable, 
He went, and took a seat at table. 
Such calm assurance there was seen, 
Both in his words and in his mien, 
That e'en that weasel-sighted Grecian 
Could not suspect him of suspicion. 
My friend, said he, I know you've quit rne, 
And some think caution would befit me, 
Lest to despatch me be your plan : 
But, deeming you too good a man 
To injure either friends or foes 
With poison'd cups or secret blows, 
I drown the thought, and say no more. 
But, as regards the three or four 
Who take my place, 
I crave your grace 
To listen to an apologue. 

A shepherd, with a single dog, 
Was ask'd the reason why 
He kept a dog, whose least supply 
Amounted to a loaf of bread 
For every day. The people said 
He'd better give the animal 
To guard the village senior's hall ; 
For him, a shepherd, it would be 
A thriftier economy 
To keep small curs, say two or three, 
That would not cost him half the food, 
And yet for watching be as good. 
The fools, perhaps, forgot to tell 
If they would fight the wolf as well. 
The silly shepherd, giving heed, 
Cast off his dog of mastiff breed, 
And took three dogs to watch his cattle, 
Which ate far less, but fled in battle. 
His flock such counsel lived to rue, 
As doubtlessly, my friend, will you. 
If wise, my aid again you'll seek — 
And so, persuaded, did the Greek. 

Not vain our tale, if it convinces 
Small states that 'tis a wiser thing 
To trust a single powerful king, 

Than half a dozen petty princes. 



XIX.— THE USE OF KNOWLEDGE. 

Between two citizens 

A controversy grew. 
The one was poor, but much he knew : 
The other, rich, with little sense, 
Claim'd that, in point of excellence, 
The merely wise should bow the knee 
To all such money'd men as he. 
The merely fools, he should have said ; 
For why should wealth hold up its head, 
When merit from its side hath fled ? 
My friend, quoth Bloated-purse 
To his reverse, 
You think yourself considerable. 
Pray, tell me, do you keep a table ? 
What comes of this incessant reading, 
In point of lodging, clothing, feeding ? 
It gives one, true, the highest chamber, 
One coat for June and for December, 
His shadow for his sole attendant, 
And hunger always in th' ascendant. 



186 



BOOK VIII.] 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



57 



What profits he his country, too, 
Who scarcely ever spends a sou ? 
Will, haply, be a public charge ? 
Who profits more the state at large, 
Than he whose luxuries dispense 
Among the people wealth immense ? 
We set the streams of life a flowing ; 
We set all sorts of trades a going. 
The spinner, weaver, sewer, vender, 
And many a wearer, fair and tender, 
All live and flourish on the spender — 
As do, indeed, the reverend rooks 
Who waste their time in making books. 
These words, so full of impudence, 
Received their proper recompense. 
The man of letters held his peace, 
Though much he might have said with ease. 
A war avenged him soon and well ; 
In it their common city fell. 
Both fled abroad ; the ignorant, 
By fortune thus brought down to want, 
Was treated everywhere with scorn, 
And roamed about, a wretch forlorn ; 
Whereas the scholar, everywhere, 
Was nourish'd by the public care. 

Let fools the studious despise ; 
There's nothing lost by being wise. 



XX.— JUPITER AND THE THUNDERBOLTS. 

Said Jupiter, one day, 

As on a cloud he lay, 

Observing all our crimes, 

Come, let us change the times, 

By leasing out anew 

A world whose wicked crew 

Have wearied out our grace, 

And cursed us to our face. 

Hie hellward, Mercury ; 

A Fury bring to me, 

The direst of the three. 

Race nursed too tenderly ! 

This day your doom shall be. 
E'en while he spoke their fate, 
His wrath began to moderate. 

kings, with whom his will 

Hath lodged our good and ill, 

Your wrath and storm between 

One night should intervene. 
The god of rapid wing 

And lip unfaltering 

To sunless regions sped, 

And met the sisters dread. 

To grim Tisiphone 

And pale Megsera, he 

Preferr'd, as murderess, 

Alecto, pitiless. 
This choice so roused the fiend, 

By Pluto's beard she swore 

The human race no more 
Should be by handfuls glean'd, 

But in one solid mass 
Th' infernal gates should pass. 
But Jove, displeased with both 
The Fury and her oath, 



Despatch'd her back to hell. 

And then a bolt he hurl'd, 

Down on a faithless world, 
Which in a desert fell. 

Aim'd by a father's arm, 

It caused more fear than harm. 

(All fathers strike aside.) 

What did from this betide ? 

Our evil race grew bold, 

Resumed their wicked ti'icks, 

Increased them manifold, 

Till, all Olympus through, 

Indignant murmurs flew. 

When, swearing by the Styx, 

The sire that rules the air 

Storms promised to prepare 

More terrible and dark, 

Which should not miss their mark. 

A father's wrath it is ! 

The other deities 

All in one voice exclaim'd ; 

And, might the thing be named, 

Some other god would make 

Bolts better for our sake. 

This Vulcan undertook. 

His rumbling forges shook 

And glow'd with fervent heat, 

While Cyclops blew and beat. 

Forth from the plastic flame 

Two sorts of bolts there came. 

Of these, one misses not : 

'Tis by Olympus shot, — 

That is, the gods at large. 
The other, bearing wide, 
Hits mountain-top or side, 

Or makes a cloud its targe. 

And this it is alone 

Which leaves the father's throne. 



XXI.— THE FALCON AND THE CAPON. 



You often hear a sweet seductive call : 
If wise, you hasten towards it not at all, — 
And, if you heed my apologue, 
You act like John de Nivelle's dog*. 

A capon, citizen of Mans, 
Was summon'd from a throng 
To answer to the village squire, 
Before tribunal call'd the fire. 

The matter to disguise, 

The kitchen sheriff wise 
Cried, Biddy— Biddy— Biddy !— 
But not a moment did he — 

This Norman and a half f — 
The smooth official trust. 
Your bait, said he, is dust, 

And I'm too old for chaff. 
Meantime, a falcon, on his perch, 

Observed the flight and search. 

* A dog which, according to the French proverh, ran 
away when his master called him. 

t Though the Normans are proverbial for their shrewd- 
ness, the French have, nevertheless, a proverh that they 
come to Paris to he hanged. Hence La Fontaine makes 
his capon, who knew how to shun a similar fate, le 
Normand et demi — the Norman and a half. 



181 



53 THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. [book viii 


In man, by instinct or experience, 


'Tis by a sacred right, 


The capons have so little confidence, 


You, sole of all your race, 


That this was not without much trouble caught, 


By special love and grace, 


Though for a splendid supper sought. 


Have been my favourite — 


To lie, the morrow night, 


The darling of my eyes. 


In brilliant candle-light, 


'Twas order'd by celestial cares, 


Supinely on a dish 


No doubt ; I thank the blessed skies, 


'Midst viands, fowl, and fish, 


That, going out to say my prayers, 


With all the ease that heart could wish — 


As cats devout each morning do, 


This honour, from his master kind, 


This net has made me pray to you. 


The fowl would gladly have declined. 


Come, fall to work upon the cord. 


Outcried the bird of ehase, 


Replied the rat, And what reward 


As in the weeds he eyed the skulker's face, — 


Shall pay me, if I dare \ 


Why, what a stupid, blockhead race ! — 


Why, said the cat, I swear 


Such witless, brainless fools 


To be your firm ally : 


Might well defy the schools. 


Henceforth, eternally, 


For me, I understand 


These powerful claws are yours,- 


To chase at word 


Which safe your life insures. 


The swiftest bird, 


I'll guard from quadruped and fowl J 


Aloft, o'er sea or land ; 


I'll eat the weasel and the owl. 


At slightest beck, 


Ah, cried the rat, you fool ! 


Returning quick 


I'm quite too wise to be your tool. 


To perch upon my master's hand. 


He said, and sought his snug retreat, 


There, at his window he appears — 


Close at the rotten pine-tree's feet, 


He waits thee — hasten — hast no ears \ 


Where plump he did the weasel meet ; 


Ah ! that I have, the fowl replied ; 


Whom shunning by a happy dodge, 


But what from master might betide ? 


He climb'd the hollow trunk to lodge ; 


Or cook, with cleaver at his side I 


And there the savage owl he saw. 


Return you may for such a call, 


Necessity became his law, 


But let me fly their fatal hall ; 


And down he went, the rope to gnaw 


And spare your mirth at my expense : 


Strand after strand in two he bit, 


Whate'er I lack, 'tis not the sense 


And freed, at last, the hypocrite. 


To know that all this sweet-toned breath 


That moment came the man in sight ; 


Is spent to lure me to my death. 


The new allies took hasty flight. 


If you had seen upon the spit 




As many of the falcons roast * 


A good while after that, 


As I have of the capon host, 


Our liberated cat 


You would not thus reproach my wit. 


Espied her favourite rat, 




Quite out of reach, and on his guard. 




My friend, said she, I take your shyness hard ; 




Your caution wrongs my gratitude ; 




Approach, and greet your staunch ally. 


XXII.— THE CAT AND THE RAT 


Do you suppose, dear rat, that I 


' 


Forget the solemn oath I mew'd ? 
Do I forget, the rat replied, 


Four creatures, wont to prowl, — 


Sly Grab-and-Snatch, the cat, 


To what your nature is allied \ 


Grave Evil-bode, the owl, 


To thankfulness, or even pity, 


Thief Nibble-stitch, the rat, 


Can cats be ever bound by treaty ? 


And Madam Weasel, prim and fine, — 




Inhabited a rotten pine. 


Alliance from necessity 


A man their home discover'd there, 


Is safe just while it has to be. 


And set, one night, a cunning snare. 




The cat, a noted early-riser, 




Went forth, at break of day, 


* 


To hunt her usual prey. 




Not much the wiser 


XXIII.— THE TORRENT AND THE RIVER. 


For morning's feeble ray, 





The noose did suddenly surprise her. 


With mighty rush and roar, 


Waked by her strangling cry, 


Adown a mountain steep 


Gray Nibble-stitch drew nigh : 


A torrent tumbled, — swelling o'er 


As full of joy was he 


Its rugged banks, — and bore 


As of despair was she, 


Vast ruin in its sweep. 


For in the noose he saw 


The traveller were surely rash 


His foe of mortal paw. 


To brave its whirling, foaming dash, 


Dear friend, said Mrs. Grab-and-Snatch, 


But one, by robbers sorely press'd, 


Do, pray, this cursed cord detach. 


Its terrors haply put to test. 


I've always known your skill, 


They were but threats of foam and sound, 


And often your good-will ; 


The loudest where the least profound. 


Now help me from this worst of snares, 


With courage from his safe success, 


In which I fell at unawares. 


His foes continuing to press, 



188 



BOOK VIII.] 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



59 



He met a river in his course : 
On stole its waters, calm and deep, 
So silently they seem'd asleep, 
All sweetly cradled, as I ween, 
In sloping banks, and gravel clean, — 

They threaten'd neither man nor horse. 
Both ventured ; but the noble steed, 
That saved from robbers by his speed, 
From that deep water could not save ; 
Both went to drink the Stygian wave ; 
Both went to cross, (but not to swim,) 
Where reigns a monarch stern and grim, 
Far other streams than ours. 

Still men are men of dangerous powers ; 
Elsewhere, 'tis^only ignorance that cowers. 



XXIV.— EDUCATION. 

La pluck and Caesar brothers were, descended 
From dogs by Fame the most commended, 
Who falling, in their puppyhood, 
To different masters anciently, 
One dwelt and hunted in the. boundless w r ood ; 
From thieves the other kept a kitchen free. 
At first, each had another name ; 
But, by their bringing up, it came, 
While one improved upon his nature, 
The other grew a sordid creature, 
Till, by some scullion called Lapluck, 
The name ungracious ever stuck. 

To high exploits his brother grew, 
Put many a stag at bay, and tore 
Full many a trophy from the boar ; 
In short, him first, of all his crew, 
The world as Caesar knew ; 
And care was had, lest, by a baser mate, 
His noble blood should e'er degenerate. 
Not so with his neglected brother ; 
He made whatever came a mother ; 
And, by the laws of population, 
His race became a countless nation — 
The common turnspits throughout France : 
Where danger is, they don't advance: — 
Precisely the antipodes 
Of what we call the Caesars, these ! 

Oft falls the son below his sire's estate ; 
Through want of care all things degenerate. 
For lack of nursing Nature and her gifts, 
What crowdsfrom gods become mere kitchen thrifts! 



XXV.— THE TWO DOGS AND THE DEAD ASS. 



The Virtues should be sisters, hand in hand, 
Since banded brothers all the Vices stand ; 

When one of these our hearts attacks, 
All come in file ; there only lacks, 

From out the cluster, here and there, 
A mate of some antagonising pair, 
That can't agree the common roof to share. 
But all the Virtues, as a sisterhood, 
Have scarcely ever in one subject stood. 

We find one brave, but passionate ; 

Another prudent, but ingrate. 



Of beasts, the dog may claim to be 
The pattern of fidelity ; 

But, for our teaching little wiser, 
He 's both a fool and gormandiser. 
For proof, I cite two mastiffs, that espied 
A dead ass floating on a water wide. 
The distance growing more and more, 
Because the wind the carcass bore, — 
My friend, said one, your eyes are best ; 
Pray let them on the water rest : 
What thing is that I seem to see ? 
An ox, or horse ? what can it be ? 
Hey ! cried his mate ; what matter which, 
Provided we could get a flitch ? 
It doubtless is our lawful prey : 
The puzzle is to find some way 
To get the prize ;' for wide the space 
To swim, with wind against your face*. 
Let's drink the flood ; our thirsty throats 
Will gain the end as well as boats. 
The water swallow'd, by and bye 
We'll have the carcass, high and dry — 
Enough to last a week, at least. 
Both drank as some do at a feast ; 
Their breath was quench'd before their thirst, 
And presently the creatures burst ! 

And such is man. Whatever he 
May set his soul to do or be, 
To him is possibility. 

How many vows he makes ! 

How many steps he takes ! 
How does he strive, and pant, and strain. 
Fortune's or Glory's prize to gain ! 
If round my farm off well I must, 
Or fill my coffers with the dust, 
Or master Hebrew, science, history, — 
I make my task to drink the sea. 
One spirit's projects to fulfil, 
Four bodies would require ; and still 

The work would stop half-done ; 
The lives of four Methuselahs, 
Placed end to end for use, alas ! 

Would not suffice the wants of one. 



XXVI.— DEMOCRITUS AND THE PEOPLE OP 
ABDEPvA. 

How do I hate the tide of vulgar thought ! 
Profane, unjust, with childish folly fraught, 
It breaks and bends the rays of truth divine, 
And by its own conceptions measures mine. 
Famed Epicurus' master tried 
The power of this unstable tide. 
His country said the sage was mad— 

The simpletons ! But why 
No prophet ever honour had 

Beneath his native sky. 
Democritus, in truth, was wise ; 
The mass were mad, with faith in lies. 
So far this error went, 
That all Abdera sent 
To old Hippocrates 
To cure the sad disease. 
Our townsman, said the messengers, 
Appropriately shedding tears, 

* Did La Fontaine, to enhance the foll'y of these dogs, 
make them had judges of the course of the wind, or did ho 
forget what he had said a few lines ahove? — Translator. 



189 



60 THE FABLES OF 


LA FONTAINE. [book bk. 


Hath lost his wits ! Democritus, 


Ah ! death may take you on the way, 


By study spoil'd, is lost to us. 


Why not enjoy, I ask, to-day ? 


Were he but fill'd with ignorance, 


Lest envious fate your hopes ingulf, 


We should esteem him less a dunce. 


As once it served the hunter and the wolf. 


He saith that worlds like this exist, 


The former, with his fatal bow, 


An absolutely endless list, — 


A noble deer had laid full low : 


And peopled, even, it may be, 


A fawn approach'd, and quickly lay 


With countless hosts as wise as we ! 


Companion of the dead, 


But, not contented with such dreams, 


For side by side they bled. 


His brain with viewless " atoms" teems, 


Could one have wish'd a richer prey ? 


Instinct with deathless life, it seems. 


Such luck had been enough to sate 


And, never strmng from the sod below, 


A hunter wise and moderate. 


He weighs and measures all the stars ; 


Meantime a boar, as big as e'er was taken, 


And, while he knows the universe, 


Our archer tempted, proud, and fond of bacon. 


Himself he doth not know. 


Another candidate for Styx, 


Though now his lips he strictly bars, 


Struck by his arrow, foams and kicks. 


He once delighted to converse. 


But strangely do the shears of Fate 


Come, godlike mortal, try thy art divine 


To cut his cable hesitate. 


Where traits of worst insanity combine. 


Alive, yet dying, there he lies, 


Small faith the great physician lent, 


A glorious and a dangerous prize. 


But still, perhaps more readily, he went. 


And was not this enough ? Not quite, 


And mark what meetings strange 


To fill a conqueror's appetite ; 


Chance causes in this world of change I 


For, ere the boar was dead, he spied 


Hippocrates arrived in season, 


A partridge by a furrow's side — 


Just as his patient (void of reason !) 


A trifle to his other game. 


Was searching whether reason's home, 


Once more his bow he drew ; 


In talking animals and dumb, 


The desperate boar upon him came, 


Be in the head, or in the heart, 


And in his dying vengeance slew : 


Or in some other local part. 


The partridge thank' d him as she flew. 


All calmly seated in the shade, 

Where brooks their softest music made, 


Thus much is to the covetous address'd ; 


He traced, with study most insane, 


The miserly shall have the rest. 


The convolutions of a brain ; 


A wolf, in passing, saw that woeful sight. 


And at his feet lay many a scroll — 


Fortune, cried the savage, with delight, 


The works of sages on the soul. 


A fane to thee I'll build outright ! 


Indeed, so much absorb'd was he, 


Four carcasses ! how rich ! but spare — 


His friend, at first, he did not see. 


I'll make them last — such luck is rare, 


A pair so admirably match'd, 


(The miser's everlasting plea.) 


Their compliments erelong despatch'd. 


They'll last a month, for — let me see — 


In time and talk, as well as dress, 


One, two, three, four — the weeks are four,, 


The wise are frugal, I confess. 


If I can count — and some days more. 


Dismissing trifles , they began 


Well, two days hence 


At once with eagerness to scan 


And I'll commence. 


The life, and soul, and laws of man ; 


Meantime, the string upon this bow 


Nor stopp'd till they had travell'd o'er all 


I'll stint myself to eat ; 


The ground, from physical to moral. 


For by its mutton-smell I know 


My time and space would fail 


'Tis made of entrails sweet. 


To give the full detail. 


His entrails rued the fatal weapon, 


But I have said enough to show 
How little 'tis the people know. 
How true, then, goes the saw abroad — > 


Which, while he heedlessly did step on, 
The arrow pierced his bowels deep, 
And laid him lifeless on the heap. 


Their voice is but the voice of God ! 


Hark, stingy souls ! insatiate leeches I 




Our text this solemn duty teaches, — 


♦ — 


Enjoy the present ; do not wait 


XXVII.— THE WOLF AND THE HUNTER. 


To share the wolf's or hunter's fate. 


Thou lust of gain, — foul fiend, whose evil eyes 





Regard as nought the blessings of the skies, 




Must I forever battle thee in vain ? 


BOOK IX. 


How long demandest thou to gain 




The meaning of my lessons plain ? 


I.— THE FAITHLESS DEPOSITARY. 


Will constant getting never cloy ? 





Will man ne'er slacken to enjoy ? 


Thanks to Memory's daughters nine, 


Haste, friend ; thou hast not long to live : 


Animals have graced my line : 


Let me the precious word repeat, 


Higher heroes in my story 


And listen to it, I entreat ; 


Might have won me less of glory. 


A richer lesson none can give — 


Wolves, in language of the sky, 


The sovereign antidote for sorrow — 


Talk with dogs throughout my verse j 


ENJOY I will.— But when ?— To-morrow.— 


Beasts with others shrewdly vie, 



190 



book ix.] THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 61 


Representing chai'acters ; 


The how of it, the man replied, 


Fools in furs not second-hand. 


Is not my province to decide ; 


Sages hoof d or feather'd, stand : 


I know I saw your son arise, 


Fewer truly are the latter. 


Borne through the air before my eyes. 


More the former — ay, and fatter. 


Why should it seem a strange affair, 


Flourish also in my scene 


Mereover, in a country where 


Tyrants, villains, mountebanks, 


A single rat contrives to eat 


Beasts incapable of thanks, 


A hundred pounds of iron meat, 


Beasts of rash and reckless pranks, 


That owls should be of strength to lift ye 


Beasts of sly and flattering mien ; 


A booby boy that weighs but fifty ? 


Troops of liars, too, I ween. 


The other plainly saw the trick, 


As to men, of every age, 


Restored the iron very quick, 


All are liars, saith the sage. 


And got, with shame as well as joy, 


Had he writ but of the low, 


Possession of his kidnapp'd boy. 


One could hardly think it so ; 




But that human mortals, all, 


The like occurr'd two travellers between. 


Lie like serpents, great and small, 


One was of those 


Had another certified it, 


Who wear a microscope, I ween, 


I, for one, should have denied it. 


Each side the nose. 


He who lies in ^Esop's way, 


Would you believe their tales romantic, 


Or like Homer, minstrel gray, « 


Our Europe, in its monsters, beats 


Is no liar, sooth to say. 


The lands that feel the tropic heats, 


Charms that bind us like a dream, 


Surcharged with all that is gigantic. 


Offspring of their happy art, 


This person, feeling free 


Cloak'd in fiction, more than seem 


To use the trope hyperbole, 


Truth to offer to the heart. 


Had seen a cabbage with his eyes 


Both have left us works which 1 


Exceeding any house in size. 


Think unworthy e'er to die. 


And I have seen, the other cries, 


Liar call not him who squares 


Resolved to leave his fellow in the lurch, 


All his ends and aims with theirs ; 


A pot that would have held a church. 


But from sacred truth to vary, 


Why, friend, don't give that doubting look. — ■ 


Like the false depositary, 


The pot was made your cabbages to cook. 


Is to be, by every rule 


This pot-discoverer was a wit ; 


Both a liar and a fool. 


The iron-monger, too, was wise. 


The story goes : 


To such absurd and ultra lies 


A man of trade, 


Their answers were exactly fit. 


In Persia, with his neighbour made 


'Twere doing honour overmuch, 


Deposit, as he left the state, 


To reason or dispute with such. 


Of iron, say a hundredweight. 


To overbid them is the shortest path, 


Return'd, said he, My iron, neighbour. 


And less provocative of wrath. 


Your iron ! you have lost your labour ; 




I grieve to say it, — 'pon my soul, 


<>__ 


A rat has eaten up the whole. 




My men were sharply scolded at, 




But yet a hole, in spite of that, 


II.— THE TWO DOVES. 


Was left, as one is wont to be 





In every barn or granary, 
By which crept in that cursed rat. 


Two doves once cherish'd for each other 


The love that brother hath for brother. 


Admiring much the novel thief, 


But one, of scenes domestic tiring, 


The man affected full belief. 


To see the foreign world aspiring, 


Ere long, his faithless neighbour's child 


Was fool enough to undertake 


He stole away,— a heavy lad, — 


A journey long, o'er land and lake. 


xVnd then to supper bade the dad, 


What plan is this ? the other cried ; 


Who thus plead off in accents sad : — 


Wouldst quit so soon thy brother's side ? 


It was but yesterday I had 


This absence is the worst of ills ; 


A boy as fine as ever smiled, 


Thy heart may bear, but me it kills. 


An only son, as dear as life, 


Pray, let the dangers, toil, and care, 


The darling of myself and wife. 


Of which all travellers tell, 


Alas ! we have him now no more, 


Your courage somewhat quell. 


And every joy with us is o'er. 


Still, if the season later were — 


Replied the merchant, Yesternight, 


wait the zephyrs ! — hasten not — 


By evening's faint and dusky ray, 


Just now the raven, on his oak, 


I saw a monstrous owl alight, 


In hoarser tones than usual spoke. 


And bear your darling son away 


My heart forebodes the saddest lot, — 


To yonder tottering ruin gray. 


The falcons, nets — Alas, it rains ! 


Can I believe you, when you say 


My brother, are thy wants supplied — 


An owl bore off so large a prey ? 


Provisions, shelter, pocket-guide, 


How could it be ? the father cried ; 


And all that unto health pertains \ 


The thing is surely quite absurd ; 


These words occasion'd some demur 


My son with ease had kill'd the bird. 


| In our imprudent traveller. 



191 



(12 THE FABLES OF 


LA FONTAINE. [book ix. 


But restless curiosity 


Or arch celestial, paved with gold, 


Prevailed at last ; and so said he, — 


The presence of those woods have sold, 


The matter is not worth a sigh ; 


And fields, and banks, and hillocks, which 


Three days, at most, will satisfy, 


Were by the joyful steps made rich, 


And then, returning, I shall tell 


And smiled beneath the charming eyes 


You all the wonders that hefell, 


Of her who made my heart a prize — 


With scenes enchanting and sublime 


To whom I pledged it, nothing loath, 


Shall sweeten all our coming time. 


And seal'd the pledge with virgin oath. 


Who seeth nought, hath nought to say. 


Ah, when will time such moments bring again ? 


My travel's course, from day to day, 


To me are sweet and charming objects vain — 


Will he the source of great delight. 


My soul forsaking to its restless mood \ 


A store of tales I shall relate, — 


0, did my wither'd heart but dare 


Say there I lodged at such a date, 


To kindle for the bright and good, 


And saw there such and such a sight. 


Should not I find the charm still there ? 


You'll think it all occurr'd to you. — 


Is love, to me, with things that were ? 


On this, both, weeping, bade adieu. 




Away the lonely wanderer flew. — 


« 


A thundei'-cloud began to lower ; 




He sought, as shelter from the shower, 


m.— THE MONKEY AND TKE LEOPARD. 


The only tree that graced the plain, 





Whose leaves ill turn'd the pelting rain. 


A monkey and a leopard were 


The sky once more serene above, 


The rivals at a country fair. 


On flew our drench'd and dripping dove, 


Each advertised his own attractions. 


And dried his plumage as he could. 


Said one, Good sirs, the highest place 


Next, on the borders of a wood, 


My fiierit knows ; for, of his grace. 


He spied some scatter'd grains of wheat, 


The king hath seen me face to face ; 


Which one, he thought, might safely eat ; 


And, judging by his looks and actions, 


For there another dove he saw. — 


I gave the best of satisfactions. 


He felt the snare around him draw ! 


When I am dead, 'tis plain enough, 


This wheat was but a treacherous bait 


My skin will make his royal muff. 


To lure poor pigeons to then* fate. 


So richly is it streak'd and spotted, 


The snare had been so long in use, 


So delicately waved and dotted, 


With beak and wings he struggled loose : 


Its various beauty cannot fail to please. 


Some feathers perish' d while it stuck ; 


And, thus invited, everybody sees ; 


But, what was worst in point of luck, 


But soon they see, and soon depart. 


A hawk, the cruellest of foes, 


The monkey's show-bill to the mart 


Perceived him clearly as he rose, 


His merits thus sets forth the while. 


Off dragging, like a runaway, 


All in his own peculiar style : — 


A piece of string. The bird of prey 


Come, gentlemen, I pray you, come ; 


Had bound him, in a moment more, 


In magic arts I am at home. 


Much faster than he was before, 


The whole variety in which 


But from the clouds an eagle came, 


My neighbour boasts himself so rich, 


And made the hawk himself his game. 


Is to his simple skin confined, 


By war of robbers profiting, 


While mine is living in the mind. 


The dove for safety plied the wing, 


Your humble servant, Monsieur Gille, 


And, lighting on a ruin'd wall, 


The son-in-law to Tickleville, 


Believed his dangers ended all. 


Pope's monkey, and of great renown, 


A roguish boy had there a sling, 


Is now just freshly come to town, 


(Age pitiless 


Arrived in three bateaux, express, 


We must confess,) 


Your worships to address ; 


And, by a most unlucky fling, 


For he can speak, you understand ; 


Half kiird "our hapless dove ; 


Can dance, and practise sleight of hand ; 


Who now, no more in love 


Can jump through hoops, and balance sticks ; 


With foreign travelling, 


In short, can do a thousand tricks ; 


And lame in leg and wing, 


And all for blancos six — 


Straight homeward urged his crippled flight, 


Not, messieurs, for a sou. 


Fatigued, but glad, arrived at night, 


And, if you think the price won't do, 


In truly sad and piteous plight. 


When you have seen, then he'll restore 


The doves rejoin'd, I leave you all to say, 


Each man his money at the door. 


What pleasure might their pains repay. 




Ah, happy lovers, would you roam ? — 


The ape was not to reason blind ; 


Pray, let it not be far from home. 


For who in wealth of dress can find 


To each the other ought to be 


Such charms as dwell in wealth of mind ? 
One meets our ever-new desires, 


A world of beauty ever new' ; 


In each the other ought to see 


The other in a moment tires. 


The whole of what is good and true. 


Alas ! how many lords there are, 




Of mighty sway and lofty mien, 


Myself have loved ; nor would I then, 


Who, like this leopard at the fan-, 


For all the wealth of crowned men, 


Show all their talents on the skin ! 



192 



;ook ix.] 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



G3 



IV.— TIIE ACORN AND THE PUMPKIN. 

God's works are good. This truth to prove 

Around the world I need not move ; 
I do it by the nearest pumpkin. 

This fruit so large, on vine so small, 

Surveying once, exclaim'd a bumpkin — 

What could He mean who made us all ? 

He's left this pumpkin out of place. 

If I had order'd in the case, 

Upon that oak it should have hung — 

A noble fruit as ever swung 

To grace a tree so firm and strong. 

Indeed, it was a great mistake, 
As this discovery teaches, 

That I myself did not partake 

His counsels whom my curate preaches. 

All things had then in order come ; 
This acorn, for example, 
Not bigger than my thumb, 

Had" not disgraced a tree so ample. 

The more I think, the more I wonder 
To see outraged proportion's laws, 
And that without the slightest cause ; 

God surely made an awkward blunder. 
With such reflections proudly fraught, 
Our sage grew tired of mighty thought, 
And threw himself on Nature's lap, 
Beneath an oak, to take his nap. 
Plump on his nose, by lucky hap, 
An acorn fell : he waked, and in 
The matted beard that graced his chhi, 
He found the cause of such a bruise 
As made him different language use. 

! ! he cried ; I bleed ! I bleed ! 
And this is what has done the deed ! 
But, truly, what had been my fate, 
Had this had half a pumpkin's weight ! 

1 see that God had reasons good, 
And all his works well understood. 
Thus home he went in humbler mood. 



THE SCHOOLBOY, THE PEDANT, AND THE 
OWNER OF A GARDEN. 



A boy who savour'd of his school, — 
A double rogue and double fool, — 

By youth and by the privilege 
Which pedants have, by ancient right, 

To alter reason and abridge, — 
A neighbour robb'd, with fingers light, 
Of flowers and fruit. This neighbour had, 
Of fruits that make the autumn glad, 
The very best — and none but he. 
Each season brought, from plant and tree, 
To him its tribute ; for, in spring, 
His was the brightest blossoming. 
One day, he saw our hopeful lad 
Perch'd on the finest tree he had, 
Not only stuffing down the fruit, 
But spoiling, like a Vandal brute, 
The buds that play advance-courier 
Of plenty in the coming year. 
The branches, too, he rudely tore, 

And carried things to such a pass, 
The owner sent his servant o'er 

To tell the master of his class. 



The latter came, and came attended 
By all the urchins of his school, 
And. thus one plunderer's mischief mended 
By pouring hi an orchard-full. 
It seems the pedant was intent 
On making public punishment, 
To teach his boys the force of law, 
And strike their roguish hearts with awe. 
The use of which he first must show 
From Virgil and from Cicero, 

And many other ancients noted, 
From whom, in their own tongues, he quoted. 

So long, indeed, his lecture lasted, 

While not a single urchin fasted, 

That, ere its close, their thievish crimes 
Were multiplied a hundred times. 

I hate all eloquence and reason 
Expended plainly out of season. 
Of all the beasts that earth have cursed 

While they have fed on 't, 

The school-boy strikes me as the worst — 

Except the pedant. 

The better of these neighbours two 

For me, I'm sure, would never do. 



n.—TEE SCULPTOR AND THE STATUE OF 
JUPITER. 

A block of marble was so fine, 
To buy it did a sculptor hasten. 

What shall my chisel, now 'tis mine— 
A god, a table, or a basin ? 

A god, said he, the thing shall be ; 

I'll arm it, too, with thunder. 
Let people quake, and bow the knee 

With reverential wonder. 

So well the cunning artist wrought 
All things within a mortal's reach, 

That soon the marble wanted nought 
Of being Jupiter, but speech. 

Indeed, the man whose skill did make 
Had scarcely laid his chisel clown, 

Before himself began to quake, 
And fear his manufacture's frown. 

And even this excess of faith 

The poet once scarce fell behind, 

The hatred fearing, and the wrath, 
Of gods the product of his mind. 

This trait we see in infancy 
Between the baby and its doll, 

Of wax or china, it may be — 
A pocket stuff'd, or folded shawl. 

Imagination rules the heart : 

And here we find the fountain head 

From whence the pagan errors start, 
That o'er the teeming nations spread. 

With violent and flaming zeal, 

Each takes his own chimera's part ; 

Pygmalion doth a passion feel 
For Venus chisel'd by his art. 



193 



64 THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. [bcok ix. 


All men, as far as in them lies, 


But all of this beneath the rose. 


Create realities of dreams. 


One smacketh ever of the place 


To truth our nature proves but ice ; 


Where first he show'd the world his face. 


To falsehood, fire it seems. 


Thus far the fable 's clear as light ; 




But, if we take a nearer sight, 




There lurks within its drapery 
Somewhat of graceless sophistry ; 






For who, that worships e'en the glorious sun. 


VII.— THE MOUSE METAMORPHOSED INTO A 


Would not prefer to wed some cooler one \ 


MAID. 


And doth a flea's exceed a giant's might, 





Because the former can the latter bite ? 


A mouse once from an owl's beak fell ; 


And, by the rule of strength, the rat 


I'd not have pick'd it up, I wis ; 


Had sent his bride to wed the cat ; 


A Bramin did it : very well ; 


From cat to dog, and onward still 


Each country has its prejudice. 


To wolf or tiger, if you will : 


The mouse, indeed, was sadly bruised. 


Indeed, the fabulist migh* run 


Although, as neighbours, we are used 


A circle backward to the sun. — 


To be more kind to many others, 


But to the change the tale supposes, — 


The Bramins treat the mice as brothers. 


In learned phrase, metempsychosis. 
The very thing the wizard did 


The notion haunts their heads, that when 


The soul goes forth from dying men, 


Its falsity exposes — 


It enters worm, or bird, or beast, 


If that indeed were ever hid. 


As Providence or Fate is pleased ; 


According to the Bramin's plan, 
The proud aspiring soul of man, 


And on this mystery rests their law, 


Which from Pythagoras they're said to draw. 


And souls that dwell in humbler forms 


And hence the Bramin kindly pray'd 


Of rats and mice, and even worms, 


To one who knew the wizard's trade, 


All issue from a common source, 


To give the creature, wounded sore, 


And, hence, they are the same of course. — 


The form in which it lodged before. 


Unequal but by accident 


Forthwith the mouse became a maid, 


Of organ and of tenement, 


Of years about fifteen ; 


They use one pair of legs, or two, 


A lovelier was never seen. 


Or e'en with none contrive to do, 


She would have waked, I ween, 


As tyrant matter binds them to. 


In Priam's son, a fiercer flame 


Why, then, could not so fine a frame 


Than did the beauteous Grecian dame. 


Constrain its heavenly guest 
To wed the solar flame ? 


Surprised at such a novelty, 


The Bramin to the damsel cried, 


A rat her love possess'd. 


Your choice is free ; 




For every he 


In all respects, compared and weigh'd, 


Will seek you for his bride. 


The souls of men and souls of mice 


Said she, Am I to have a voice ? 


Quite different are made, — 


The strongest, then, shall be my choice. 


Unlike in sort as well as size. 


sun ! the Bramin cried, this maid is thine, 


Each fits and fills its destined part 


And thou shalt be a son-in-law of mine. 


As Heaven doth well provide ; 


No, said the sun, this murky cloud, it seems, 


Nor witch, nor fiend, nor magic art, 


In strength exceeds me, since he hides my beams ; 


Can set their laws aside. 


And him I counsel you to take. 




Again the reverend Bramin spake — 
cloud, on-flying with thy stores of water, 






Pray wast thou born to wed my daughter ? 




Ah, no, alas ! for, you may see, 


VIII.— THE FOOL WHO SOLD WISDOM. 


The wind is far too strong for me. 





My claims with Boreas' to compare, 


Of fools come never in the reach : 


I must confess, I do not dare. 


No rule can I more wisely teach. 


wind, then cried the Bramin, vex'd, 


Nor can there be a better one 


And wondering what would hinder next, — 


Than this, — distemper'd heads to shun. 


Approach, and, with thy sweetest air, 


We often see them, high and low. 


Embrace — possess — the fairest fair. 


They tickle e'en the royal ear, 


The wind, enraptured, thither blew ; — 


As privileged and free from fear 


A mountain stopp'd him as he flew, 


They hurl about them joke and jeer, 


To him now pass'd the tennis-ball, 


At pompous lord or silly beau. 


And from him to a creature small. 




Said he, I'd wed the maid, but that 


A fool, in town, did wisdom cry ; 


I've had a quarrel with the rat. 


The people, eager, flock'd to buy. 


A fool were I to take the bride 


Each for his money got, 


From one so sure to pierce my side. 


Paid promptly on the spot, 


The rat. It thrill' d the damsel's ear ; 


Besides a box upon the head, 


Tljr> name at once seem'd sweet and dear. 


Two fathoms' length of thread. 


Tue rat ! 'Twas one of Cupid's blows ; 


The most were vex'd — but quite in vain ; 


The like full many a maiden knows ; 


The public only mock'd their pain. 



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THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



05 



The wiser they who nothing said, 

But pocketed the box and thread. 

To search the meaning of the thing 

Would only laughs and hisses bring. 

Hath reason ever guaranteed 

The wit of fools in speech or deed ? 

'Tis said of brainless heads in France, 

The cause of what they do is chance. 

One dupe, however, needs must know 

What meant the thread, and what the blow 

So ask'd a sage, to make it sure. 

They're both hieroglyphics pure, 

The sage replied without delay ; 

All people well advised will stay 

From fools this fibre's length away, 

Or get — I hold it sure as fate — 

The other symbol on the pate. 

So far from cheating you of gold, 

The fool this wisdom fairly sold. 



IX.— THE OYSTER AND THE LITIGANTS. 

Two pilgrims on the sand espied 
An oyster thrown up by the tide. 
In hope, both swallow'd ocean's fruit ; 
But ere the fact there came dispute. 
While one stoop'd down to take the prey, 
The other push'd him quite away. 
Said he, 'twere rather meet 
To settle which shall eat. 
Why, he who first the oyster saw 
Should be its eater, by the law ; 
The other should but see him do it. 
Replied his mate, if thus you view it, 
Thank God the lucky eye is mine. 
But I've an eye not worse than thine, 
The other cried, and will be cursed, 
If, too, I didn't see it first. 
You saw it, did you ? Grant it true, 
I saw it then, and felt it too. 
Amidst this sweet affair, 
Arrived a person very big, 
Ycleped Sir Nincom Periwig. 
They .made him judge, — to set the matter square. 
Sir Nincom, with a solemn face, 
Took up the oyster and the case : 
In opening both, the first he swallow'd, 
And, in due time, his judgment follow'd. 
Attend : the court awards you each a shell 
Cost free ; depart in peace, and use them well. 
Foot up the cost of suits at law, 
The leavings reckon and awards, 
The cash you'll see Sir Nincom draw, 
And leave the parties — purse and cards. 



X.— THE WOLF AND THE LEAN DOG. 

A troutling, some time since*, 
Endeavour'd vainly to convince 
A hungry fisherman 
Of his unfitness for the frying-pan. 
That controversy made it plain 
That letting go a good secure, 

In hope of uture gain, 
Is but imprudence pure. 

* Sec Book V. Fable III. 



The fisherman had reason good — 
The troutling did the best he could — 

Both argued for their lives. 
Now, if my present purpose thrives, 
I'll prop my former proposition 
By building on a small addition. 
A certain wolf, in point of wit 
The prudent fisher's opposite, 
A dog once finding far astray, 
Prepared to take him as his prey. 

The dog his leanness. pled ; 

Your lordship, sure, he said, 

Cannot be very eager 

To eat a dog so meagre. 
To wait a little do not grudge : 
The wedding of my master's only daughter 
Will cause of fatted calves and fowls a slaughter ; 
And then, as you yourself can judge, 
I cannot help becoming fatter. 
The wolf, believing, waived the matter, 
And so, some days therefrom, 

Return' d with sole design to see 

If fat enough his dog might be. 
The rogue was now at home : 
He saw the hunter through the fence. 

My friend, said he, please wait ; 
I'll be with you a moment hence, 

And fetch our porter of the gate. 
This porter was a dog immense, 
That left to wolves no future tense. 

Suspicion gave our wolf a jog, — 
It might not be so safely tamper'd. 

My service to your porter dog, 
Was his reply, as off he scamper'd. 
His legs proved better than his head, 
And saved him life to learn his trade. 



XL-NOTHING TOO MUCH. 

Look where we will throughout creation, 
We look in vain for moderation. 
There is a certain golden mean, 
Which Nature's sovereign Lord, I ween, 
Design'd the path of all forever. 
Doth one pursue it ! Never. 
E'en things which by their nature bless, 
Are turn'd to curses by excess. 

The grain, best gift of Ceres fair, 
Green waving in the genial air, 
By overgrowth exhausts the soil ; 

By superfluity of leaves 

Defrauds the treasure of its sheaves, 
And mocks the busy farmer's toil. 
Not less redundant is the tree, 
So sweet a thing is luxury. 
The grain within due bounds to keep, 
Their Maker licenses the sheep 
The leaves excessive to retrench. 

In troops they spread across the plain, 

And, nibbling down the hapless grain, 
Contrive to spoil it, root and branch. 

So, then, with licence from on high, 
The wolves are sent on sheep to prey ; 
The whole the greedy gluttons slay ; 
Or, if they don't, they try. 



*95 



66 THE FABLES OF 


LA FONTAINE. [rook ix. 


Next, men are sent on wolves to take 


From half a dozen beefless bones. 


The vengeance now condign : 


Great Jove, said he, behold my vow ! 


In turn the same abuse they make 


The fumes of beef thou breathest now 


Of this behest divine. 


Are all thy godship ever owns : 




From debt I therefore stand acquitted. 


Of animals, the human kind 


With seeming smile, the god submitted, 


Are to excess the most inclined. 


But not long after caught him well, 


On low and high we make the charge, — 


By sending him a dream, to tell 


Indeed, upon the race at large. 


Of treasure hid. Off ran the bar, 


There liveth not the soul select 


As if to quench a house on fire, 


That sinneth not in this respect. 


And on a band of robbers fell. 


Of " Nought too much," the fact is, 


As but a crown he had that day. 


All preach the truth, — none practise. 


He promised them of sterling gold 




A hundred talents truly told ; 




Directing where conceal'd they lay, 
In such a village on their way. 






The rogues so much the tale suspected, 


Xn.-THE WAX-CANDLE. 


Said one, If we should suffer you to, 





You'd cheaply get us all detected ; 


From bowers of gods the bees came down to man. 


Go, then, and bear your gold to Pluto. 


On Mount Hymettus, first, they say, 




They made their home, and stored away 




The treasures which the zephyrs fan. 


• 


When men had robb'd these daughters of the sky, 




And left their palaces of nectar dry, — 


XIV.— THE CAT AND THE FOX. 


Or, as in French the thing's explain' d 





When hives were of their honey drain'd, — 


The cat and fox, when saints were all the rage, 


The spoilers 'gan the wax to handle, 


Together went on pilgrimage. 


And fashion'd from it many a candle. 


Arch hypocrites and swindlers, they, 


Of these, one, seeing clay, made brick by fire, 


By sleight of face and sleight of paw, 


Remain uninjured by the teeth of time, 


Regardless both of right and law, 


Was kindled into great desire 


Contrived expenses to repay, 


For immortality sublime. 


By eating many a fowl and cheese, 


And so this new Empedocles 


And other tricks as bad as these. 


Upon the blazing pile one sees, 


Disputing served them to beguile 


Self-doom' d by purest folly 


The road of many a weary mile. 


To fate so melancholy. 


Disputing ! but for this resort, 


The candle lack'd philosophy : 


The world- would go to sleep, in short. 


All things are made diverse to be. 


Our pilgrims, as a thing of course, 


To wander from our destined tracks — 


Disputed till their throats were hoarse. 


There cannot be a vainer wish ; 


Then, dropping to a lower tone, 


But this Empedocles of wax, 


They talk'd of this, and talk'd of that, 


That melted in the chafing-dish, 


Till Renard whisper'd to the cat, 


Was truly not a greater fool 


You think yourself a knowing one : 


Than he of whom we read at school. 


How many cunning tricks have you 1 




For I've a hundred old and new, 




All ready in my haversack. 
The cat replied, I do not lack, 






Though with but one provided ; 


XIIL-JUPITER AND THE PASSENGER, 


And, truth to honour, for that matter, 





I hold it than a thousand better. 


How danger would the gods enrich, 


In fresh dispute they sided ; 


If we the vows remember'd which 


And loudly were they at it, when 


It drives us to ! But, danger past. 


Approach'd a mob of dogs and men. 


Kind Providence is paid the last. 


Now, said the cat, your tricks ransack, 


No earthly debt is treated so. 


And put your cunning brains to rack, 


Now, Jove, the wretch exclaims, will wait ; 


One life to save ; I'll show you mine — 


He sends no sheriff to one's gate, 


A trick," you see, for saving nine. 


Like creditors below; 


With that, she climb'd a lofty pine. 


But let me ask the dolt 


The fox his hundred ruses tried, 


What means the thunderbolt ! 


And yet no safety found. 




A hundred times he falsified 


A passenger, endanger'd by the sea, 


The nose of every hound. — 


Had vow'd a hundred oxen good 


Was here, and there, and everywhere, 


To him who quell' d old Terra's brood. 


Above, and under ground ; 


He had not one : as well might he 


But yet to stop he did not dare. 


Have vow'd a hundred elephants. 


Pent in a hole, it was no joke 


Arrived on shore, his good intents 


To meet the terriers or the smoke. 


Were dwindled to the smoke which rose 


So, leaping into upper air, 


An offering merely for the nose, 


He met two dogs, that choked him there. 



196 



BOOK IX.] 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



Expedients may be too many, 
Consuming time to choose and try. 

On one, but that as good as any, 
'Tis best in danger to rely. 



XV.— THE HUSBAND, THE WIFE, AND THE 
THIEF. 
A man that loved, — and loved his wife, — 
Still led an almost joyless life. 
No tender look, nor gracious word, 
Nor smile, that, coming from a bride, 
Its object would have deified, 
E'er told her doting lord 
The love with which he burn'd 
Was in its kind return'd. 
Still unrepining at his lot, 
This man, thus tied in Hymen's knot, 
Thank'd God for all the good he got. 
But why ? If love doth fail to season 
Whatever pleasures Hymen gives, 
I'm sure I cannot see the reason 
Why one for him the happier lives. 

However, since his wife 
Had ne'er caress'd him in her life, 
He made complaint of it one night. 
The entrance of a thief 
Cut short his tale of grief, 
And gave the lady such a fright, 

She shrunk from dreaded harms 
Within her husband's arms. 
Good thief, cried he, 
This joy so sweet, I owe to thee : 
Now take, as thy reward, 
Of all that owns me lord, 
Whatever suits thee save my spouse ; 
Ay, if thou pleasest, take the house. 
As thieves are not remarkably 
O'erstock'd with modesty, 
This fellow made quite free. 

From this account it doth appear, 
The passions all are ruled by fear. 
Aversion may be conquer'd by it, 
And even love may not defy it. 
But still some cases there have been 
Where love hath ruled the roast, I ween. 
That lover witness, highly bred, 
Who burnt his house above his head, 
And all to clasp a certain dame, 
And bear her harmless through the flame. 
This transport through the fire, 
I own, I much admire ; 
And for a Spanish soul reputed coolish, 
I think it grander even than 'twas foolish*. 



XVI.— THE TREASURE AND THE TWO MEN. 

A man whose credit fail'd, and what was worse, 
Who lodged the devil in his purse, — 
That is to say, lodged nothing there, — 
By self-suspension in the air 

* La Fontaine here refers to the adventure of the 
Spanish Count Villa Medina with Elizabeth of France, 
wife of Philip IV. of Spain. The former, having invited 
the Spanish court to a splendid entertainment in his 
palace, had it set on fire, that he might personally rescue 
the said lady from its flames. 



Concluded his accounts to square, 
Since, should he not, he understood, 
From various tokens, famine would — 
A death for which no mortal wight 
Had ever any appetite. 
A rum, crown'd with ivy green, 
Was of his tragedy the scene. 
His hangman's noose he duly tied, 
And then to drive a nail he tried ; — 
But by his blows the wall gave way, 

Now tremulous and old, 
Disclosing to the light of day 

A sum of hidden gold. 
He clutch'd it up, and left Despair 
To struggle with his halter there. 
Nor did the much delighted man 
E'en stop to count it as he ran. 
But, while he went, the owner came, 
Who loved it with a secret flame, 
Too much indeed for kissing, — 
And found his money-^-missing ! 
Heavens ! he cried, shall I 
Such riches lose, and still not die 1 
Shall I not hang ? — as I, in fact, 
Might justly do if cord I lack'd ; 
But now, without expense I can ; 
This cord here only lacks a man. 
The saving was no saving clause ; 

It suffer' d not his heart to falter, 
Until it reach'd his final pause 

As full possessor of the halter. — 
'Tis thus the miser often grieves, 
Who e'er the benefit receives 
Of what he owns, he never must — 

Mere treasurer for thieves, 

Or relatives, or dust. 
But what say we about the trade 
In this affair by Fortune made 2 
Why, what but that it was just like her ? 

In freaks like this delighteth she. 

The shorter any turn may be, 
The better it is sure to strike her. 
It fills that goddess full of glee 
A self-suspended man to see ; 
And that it does especially, 
When made so unexpectedly. 



XVII.— THE MONKEY AND THE CAT. 

Sly Bertrand and Ratto in company sat, 
(The one was a monkey, the other a cat,) 
Co-servants and lodgers : 
More mischievous codgers 
Ne'er mess'd from a platter, since platters were flat. 
Was any thing wrong in the house or about it, 
The neighbours were blameless, — no mortal could 

doubt it ; 
For Bertrand was thievish, and Ratto so nice, 
More attentive to cheese than he was to the mice. 
One day the two plunderers sat by the fire, 
Where chestnuts were roasting, with looks of desire. 
To steal them would be a right noble affair. 
A double inducement our heroes drew there — 
'T would benefit them, could they swallow their fill, 
And then 'twould occasion to somebody ill. 
Said Bertrand to Ratto, My brother, to-day 
Exhibit your powers in a masterly way, 
And take me these chestnuts, I pray. 



197 



53 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



[book X. 



Which were I but otherwise fitted 

(As I am ingeniously witted) 

For pulling things out of the flame, 

Would stand but a pitiful game. 
'Tis done, replied Ratto, all prompt to obey ; 
And thrust out his paw in a delicate way. 

First giving the ashes a scratch, 

He open'd the coveted batch ; 

Then lightly and quickly impinging, 

He drew out, in spite of the singeing, 
One after another, the chestnuts at last, — 
While Bertrand contrived to devour them as fast. 

A servant girl enters. Adieu to the fun. 

Our Ratto was hardly contented, says one. — 

No more are the princes, by flattery paid 
For furnishing help in a different trade, 
And burning their fingers to bring 
More power to some mightier king. 



XVIII.— THE KITE AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 

A noted thief, the kite, 

Had set a neighbourhood in fright, 

And raised the clamorous noise 

Of all the village boys, 

When, by misfortune, — sad to say, — 

A nightingale fell in his way. 

Spring's hei'ald begg'd him not to eat 

A bird for music — not for meat. 

O spare ! cried she, and I'll relate 

The crime of Tereus and his fate. — 

What's Tereus ? Is it food for kites % — 

No, but a king, of female rights 

The villain spoiler, whom I taught 

A lesson with repentance fraught ; 

And, should it please you not to kill, 

My song about his fall 
Your very heart shall thrill, 

As it, indeed, does all. — 
Replied the kite, Pretty thing, 
When I am faint and famishing, 
To let you go, and hear you sing ? — 
Ah, but I entertain the king ! — 
Well, when he takes you, let him hear 

Your tale, full wonderful, no doubt ; 

For me, a kite, I'll go without. 
An empty stomach hath no ear. 



XIX.— THE SHEPHERD AND HIS FLOCK. 

What ! shall I lose them one by one, 

This stupid coward throng ? 
And never shall the wolf have done ? 

They were at least a thousand strong, 
But still they've let poor Robin fall a prey ! 
Ah, woe's the day ! 

Poor Robin Wether lying dead ! 

He follow' d for a bit of bread 
His .master through the crowded city, 

And would have follow'd, had he led, 
Around the world. ! what a pity ! 

My pipe, and even step, he knew ; 

To meet me when I came, he flew ; 
In hedge-row shade we napp'd together ; 

Alas, alas, my Robin Wether ! 



When Willy thus had duly said 
His eulogy upon the dead, 
And unto everlasting fame 
Consign'd poor Robin Wether's name, 
He then harangued the flock at large, 
From proud old chieftain rams 
Down to the smallest lambs, 
Addressing them this weighty charge, — 
Against the wolf, as one, to stand, 
In firm, united, fearless band, 

By which they might expel him from their land. 
Upon their faith, they would not flinch, 
They promised him, a single inch. 

We'll choke, said they, the murderous glutton 

Who robb'd us of our Robin Mutton. 

Their lives they pledged against the beast, 
And Willy gave them all a feast. 
But evil Fate, than Phoebus faster, 
Ere night had brought a new disaster : 
A wolf there came. By nature's law, 
The total flock were prompt to run ; 
And yet 'twas not the wolf they saw, 

But shadow of him from the setting sun. 

Harangue a craven soldiery, 
What heroes they will seem to be ! 
But let them snuff the smoke of battle, 
Or even hear the ramrods rattle, 
Adieu to all their spunk and mettle : 
Your own example will be vain, 
And exhortations, to retain 
The timid cattle. 



BOOK X. 
I.— THE TWO RATS, THE FOX, AND THE EGG. 

ADDRESS TO MADAME DE LA SABLIERE. 

You, Iris, 'twere an easy task to praise ; 
But you refuse the incense of my lays. 
In this you are unlike all other mortals, 
Who welcome all the praise that seeks their 
portals ; 
Not one who is not soothed by sound so sweet. 
For me to blame this humour were not meet, 
By gods and mortals shared in common, 
And, in the main, by lovely woman. 
That drink, so vaunted by the rhyming trade 
That cheers the god who deals the thunder-blow, 
And oft intoxicates the gods below, — 
The nectar, Iris, is of praises made. 
You taste it not. But, in its place, 
Wit, science, even trifles grace 
Your bill of fare ; but, for that matter, 
The world will not believe the latter. 
Well, leave the world in unbelief. 
Still science, trifles, fancies light as air, 
I hold, should mingle in a bill of fare, 
Each giving each its due relief ; 
As, where the gifts of Flora fall, 
On different flowers we see 

Alight the busy bee, 
Educing sweet from all. 
Thus much premised, don't think it strange, 
Or aught beyond my muse's range, 



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BOOK X.] 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



iJ9 



If e'en my fables should infold, 

Among their nameless trumpery, 

The traits of a philosophy 
Far-famed as subtle, charming, bold. 
They call it new — the men of wit ; 
Perhaps you have not heard of it* ? 
My verse will tell you what it means : — 
They say that beasts are mere machines ; 
That, in their doings, everything 
Is done by virtue of a spring — 

No sense, no soul, nor notion ; 
But matter merely, — set in motion, 

Just such the watch in kind, 
Which joggeth on, to purpose blind. 
Now ope, and read within its breast — 
The place of soul is by its wheels possess'd. 

One moves a second, that a third, 

Till finally its sound is heard. 

And now the beast, our sages say, 

Is moved precisely in this way. 
An object strikes it in a certain place : 
The spot thus struck, without a moment's space, 
To neighbouring parts the news conveys ; 
Thus sense receives it through the chain, 
And takes impression. — How ? Explain. — 
Not I. They say, by sheer necessity, 
From will as well as passion free, 
The animal is found the thrall 
Of movements which the vulgar call 
Joy, sadness, pleasux-e, pain, and love — 
The cause extrinsic and above. — 
Believe it not. What's this I hold ? 
Why, sooth, it is a watch of gold- 
Its life, the mere unbending of a spring. 
And we \— are quite a different thing. 
i Hear how Descartes — Descartes, whom all applaud, 
Whom pagans would have made a god, 
Who holds, in fact, the middle place 
'Twixt ours and the celestial race, 
About as does the plodding ass 
From man to oyster as you pass — 
Hear how this author states the case : 
Of all the tribes to being brought 
By our Creator out of nought, 
I only have the gift of thought. 

Now, Iris, you will recollect 
We were by older science taught 
That when brutes think, they don't reflect. 
Deseartes proceeds beyond the wall, 
And says they do not think at all. 

This you believe with ease ; 
And so could I, if I should please. 
Still, in the forest, when, from morn 
Till midday, sounds of dog and horn 
Have terrified the stag forlorn ; 
When he has doubled forth and back, 
And labour'd to confound his track, 
Till tired and spent with efforts vain — 
An ancient stag, of antlers ten; — 
He puts a younger in his place, 
All fresh, to weary out the chase. — 
What thoughts for one that merely grazes ! 
The doublings, turnings, windings, mazes, 

* Madame de la Sabliere was one of the most learned 
women of the age in which she lived, and knew more of 
the philosophy of Descartes, in which she was a believer, 
than our poet ; but she dreaded the reputation of a "blue- 
stocking," and for this reason La Fontaine addresses her 
as if she might be ignorant of the Cartesian theory. 



The substituting fresher bait, 
Were worthy of a man of state — 
And worthy of a better fate ! 
To yield to rascal dogs his breath 
Is all the honour of his death. 
And when the partridge danger spies, 
Before her brood have strength to rise, 
She wisely counterfeits a wound, 
And drags her wing upon the ground — 
Thus, from her home, beside some ancient leg, 
Safe drawing off the sportsman and his dog ; 
And while the latter seems to seize her, 

The victim of an easy chase — 

Your teeth are not for such as me, sir, 

She cries, 

And flies, 

And laughs the former in his face. 

Far north, 'tis said, the people live 
In customs nearly primitive ; 
That is to say, are bound 
In ignorance profound : — 
I mean the people human ; 
For animals are dwelling there 
With skill such buildings to prepare 

As could on earth but few men. 
Firm laid across the torrent's course, 
Their work withstands its mighty force, 
So damming it from shore to shore, 

That, gliding smoothly o'er, 
In even sheets the waters pour. 
Their work, as it proceeds, they grade and bevel, 
Or bring it up to plumb or level ; 
First lay their logs, and then with mortar smear, 
As if directed by an engineer. 
Each labours for the public good ; 
The old command, the youthful brood 
Cut down, and shape, and place the wood. 
Compared with theirs, e'en Plato's model state 
Were but the work of some apprentice pate. 
Such are the beaver folks, who know 
Enough to house themselves from snow, 
And bridge, though they can swim, the pools. 
Meanwhile, our kinsmen are such fools, 
In spite of their example, 
They dwell in huts less ample, 
And cross the streams by swimming, 
However cold and brimming ! 
Now that the skilful beaver, 
Is but a body void of spirit, 
From whomsoever I might hear it, 
I would believe it never. 

But I go farther in the case. 

Pray listen while I tell 

A thing which lately fell 
From one of truly royal racef . 
A prince beloved by Victory, 
The north's defender here shall be 
My voucher and your guaranty ; 

Whose mighty name alone 

Commands the sultan's throne, 
The king whom Poland calls her own. 
This king declares (kings cannot lie, we hear) 

That, on his own frontier, 

Some animals there are 

Engaged in ceaseless war ; 
From age to age the quarrel runs, 
Transmitted down from sires to sons ; 

f John Sobieski. 



199 



79 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



[BOOK X. 



(These beasts, he says, are to the fox akin ;) 
And with more skill no war hath been, 
By highest military powers, 
Conducted in this age of ours. 
Guards, piquets, scouts, and spies, 
And ambuscade that hidden lies, 
The foe to capture by surprise, 
And many a shrewd appliance 
Of that pernicious, cursed science, 
The daughter of the Stygian wave, 
And mother harsh of heroes brave, 
Those military creatures have. 
To chant their feats a bard we lack, 
Till Death shall give us Homer back. 

And should he such a wonder do, 
And, while his hand was in, release 
Old Epicurus' rival * too, 
What would the latter say to facts like these ? 
Why, as I've said, that nature does such things 
In animals by means of springs ; 
That Memory is but corporeal ; 

And that to do the things array 'd 
So proudly in my story all, 
The animal but needs her aid. 
At each return, the object, so to speak, 
Proceeds directly to her store 
With keenest optics — there to seek 
The image it had traced before, 
Which, found, proceeds forthwith to act 
Just as at first it did, in fact, 
By neither thought nor reason back'd. 
Not so with us, beasts perpendicular ; 
With us kind Heaven is more particular. 
Sfelf-ruied by independent mind, 
We're not the sport of objects blind, 
Nor e'en to instinct are consign'd. 
I walk ; I talk ; I feel the sway 
Of power within 
This nice machine 
It cannot but obey. 
This power, although with matter link'd, 
Is comprehended as distinct. 
Indeed 'tis comprehended better, 
In truth and essence than is matter. 
O'er all our arts it is supreme. 
But how doth matter understand 
Or hear its sovereign lord's command ? 
Here doth a difficulty seem : 

I see the tool obey the hand ; 
But then the hand who guideth it ; 
Who guides the stars in order fit ? 
Perhaps each mighty world, 
Since from its Maker hurl'd, 
Some angel may have kept in custody. 
However that may be, 
A spirit dwells in such as we ; 
It moves our limbs ; we feel its mandates now ; 
We see and know it rules, but know not how : 
Nor shall we know, indeed, 
Till in the breast of God we read. 
And, speaking in all verity, 
Descartes is just as ignorant as we ; 
In things beyond a mortal's ken, 
He knows no more than other men. 
But, Iris, I confess to this, 

That in the beasts of which I speak 
Such spirit it were vain to seek, 
For man its only temple is. 

* Descartes. 



Yet beasts must have a place 
Beneath our godlike race, 
Which no mere plant requires 
Although the plant respires. 

But what shall one reply 

To what I next shall certify ? 

Two rats in foraging fell on an egg. — 

For gentry such as they 

A genteel dinner every way ; 

They needed not to find an ox's leg. 

Brimful of joy and appetite, 

They were about to sack the box, 

So tight without the aid of locks, 

When suddenly there came in sight 

A personage — Sir Pullet Fox. 
Sure, luck was never more untoward 
Since Fortune was a vixen froward ! 
How should they save their egg and bacon ! 

Their plunder couldn't then be bagg'd ; 
Should it in forward paws be taken, 
Or roll'd along, or dragg'd ? 
Each method seem'd impossible, 
And each was then of danger full. 
Necessity, ingenious mother, 
Brought forth what help'd them from their 

pother. 
As still there was a chance to save their prey, — 
The spunger yet some hundred yards away, — 
One seized the egg, and turn'd upon his back, 
And then, in spite of many a thump and thwack, 
That would have torn, perhaps, a coat of mail, 
The other dragg'd him by the tail. 
Who dares the inference to blink, 
That beasts possess wherewith to think ? 

Were I commission'd to bestow 
This power on creatures here below, 
The beasts should have as much of mind 
As infants of the human kind. 
Think not the latter, from their birth ? 
It hence appears there are on earth 
That have the simple power of thought 
Where reason hath no knowledge wrought. 
And on this wise au equal power I'd yield 
To all the various tenants of the field ; 
Not reason such as in ourselves we find, 
But something more than any mainspring blind. 
A speck of matter I would subtilise 
Almost beyond the reach of mental eyes ; — 
An atom's essence, one might say, 
An extract of a solar ray, 
More quick and pungent than a flame of fire, — 
For if of flame the wood is sire, 
Cannot the flame, itself refined, 
Give some idea of the mind ? 
Comes not the purest gold 
From lead, as we are told ? 
To feel and choose, my work should soar — 
Unthinking judgment — nothing more. 
No monkey of my manufacture 
Should argue from his sense or fact, sure : 
But my allotment to mankind 
Should be of very different mind. 
We men should share in double measure, 
Or rather have a twofold treasure ; 
The one the soul, the same in all 
That bear the name of animal — 
The sages, dunces, great and small, 
That tenant this our teeming ball;— 



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The other still another soul, 
Which should to mortals here belong 
In common with the angel throng ; 

Which, made an independent whole, 
Could pierce the skies to worlds of light, 
Within a point have room to he, — 
Its life a morn, sans noon or night. 
Exempt from all destructive change — 
A thing as real as 'tis strange. 
Iu infancy this child of day 
Should glimmer but a feeble ray. 
Its earthly organs stronger grown, 
The beam of reason, brightly thrown, 
Should pierce the darkness, thick and gross, 
That holds the other prison'd close. 



II.— THE MAN AND THE ADDER. 

You villain ! cried a man who found 
An adder coil'd upon the ground, 
To do a very grateful deed 
For all the world, I shall proceed. 
On this the animal perverse 
(I mean the snake ; 
Pray don't mistake 
The human for the worse) 
Was caught and bagg'd, and, worst of all, 
His blood was by his captor to be spilt 
Without regard to innocence or guilt. 
Howe'er, to show the why, these words let fall 
His judge and jailor, proud and tall : — 
Thou type of all ingratitude ! 

All charity to hearts like thine 
Is folly, certain to be rued. 
Die, then, 
Thou foe of men ! 
Thy temper and thy teeth malign 
Shall never hurt a hair of mine. 
The muffled serpent, on his side, 
The best a serpent could, replied, — 
If all this world's ingrates 

Must meet with such a death, 
Who from this worst of fates 
Could save his breath ? 
Upon thyself thy law recoils ; 
I throw myself upon thy broils, 
Thy graceless revelling on spoils ; 
If thou but homeward cast an eye, 
Thy deeds all mine will justify. 
But strike : my life is in thy hand ; 
Thy justice, all may understand, 
Is but thy interest, pleasure, or caprice : — 
Pronounce my sentence on such laws as these. 
But give me leave to tell thee, while I can, 
The type of all ingratitude is man. 
By such a lecture somewhat foil'd, 
The other back a step recoil'd, 
And finally replied, — 
Thy reasons are abusive, 
And wholly inconclusive. 
I might the case decide 
Because to me such right belongs ; 
But let 's refer the case of wrongs. 
The snake agreed ; they to a cow referr'd it, 
Who, being called, came graciously and heard it. 
Then, summing up, What need, said she, 
In such a case, to call on me \ 



The adder 's right, plain truth to bellow ; 

For years I've nursed this haughty fellow, 

Who, but for me, had long ago 

Been lodging with the shades below. 

For him my milk has had to flow, 
My calves at tender age, to die. 

And for this best of wealth, 

And often reestablish'd health, 

What pay, or even thanks, have 1 ? 

Here, feeble, old, and worn, alas ! 

I'm left without a bite of grass. 
Were I but left, it might be weather'd, 
But, shame to say it, I am tether' d. 
And now my fate is surely sadder 
Than if my master were an adder, 

With brains within the latitude 

Of such immense ingratitude. 

This, gentles, is my honest view ; 

And so I bid you both adieu. 
The man, confounded and astonish'd 
To be so faithfully admonish'd, 

Replied, What fools to listen, now, 

To this old, silly, dotard cow ! 

Let 's trust the ox. Let 's trust, replied 

The crawling beast, well gratified. 
So said, so done ; 

The ox, with tardy pace, came on, 

And, ruminating o'er the case, 

Declared, with very serious face, 

That years of his most painful toil 

Had clothed with Ceres' gifts our soil — 

Her gifts to men — but always sold 

To beasts for higher cost than gold ; 

And that for this, for his reward, 

More blows than thanks return' d his lord ; 

And then, when age had chill'd his blood, 
And men would quell the wrath of Heaven, 

Out must be pour'd the vital flood, 
For others' sins, all thankless given. 

So spake the ox ; and then the man : — 
Away with such a dull declaimer ! 

Instead of judge, it is his plan 
To play accuser and defamer. 
A tree was next the arbitrator, 
And made the wrong of man still greater. 

It served as refuge from the heat, 

The showers, and storms which madly beat ; 

It grew our gardens' greatest pride, 

Its shadow spreading far and wide, 

And bow'd itself with fruit beside : 

But yet a mercenary clown 

With cruel iron chopp'd it down. 

Behold the recompense for which, 

Year after year, I did enrich, 
With spring's sweet flowers, and autumn's fruits, 
And summer's shade, both men and brutes, 

And warm'd the hearth with many a limb 

Which winter from its top did trim! 

Why could not man have pruned and spared, 

And with itself for ages shared ? 

Much scorning thus to be convinced, 
The man resolved his cause to gain. 

Quoth he, My goodness is evinced 
By hearing this, 'tis very plain ; 

Then flung the serpent bag and all, 

With fatal force, against a wall. 
So ever is it with the great, 

With whom the whim doth always run 
That Heaven all creatures doth create 

For their behoof, beneath the sun — 



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Count they four feet, or two, or none. 
If one should dare the fact dispute, 
He 's straight set down a stupid brute. 
Now, grant it so, — such lords among, 
What should be done, or said, or sung ? 
At distance speak, or hold your tongue. 



HI.— THE TORTOISE AND THE TWO DUCKS. 

A light-brain'd tortoise, anciently, 
Tired of her hole, the world would see. 
Prone are all such, self-banished, to roam- 
Prone are all cripples to abhor their home. 
Two ducks, to whom the gossip told 
The secret of her purpose bold, 

Profess'd to have the means whereby 

They could her wishes gratify. 
Our boundless road, said they, behold ! 
It is the open air ; 
And through it we will bear 
You safe o'er land and ocean. 
Republics, kingdoms, you will view, 
And famous cities, old and new ; 

And get of customs, laws, a notion, — 
Of various wisdom various pieces, 
As did, indeed, the sage Ulysses. 
The eager tortoise waited* not 
To question what Ulysses got, 
But closed the bargain on the spot. 
A nice machine the birds devise 
To bear their pilgrim through the skies. 
Athwart her mouth a stick they throw : 
Now bite it hard, and don't let go, 
They say, and seize each duck an end, 
And, swiftly flying, upward tend. 
It made the people gape and stare 

Beyond the expressive power of words, 
To see a tortoise cut the air, 

Exactly poised between two birds. 
A miracle, they cried, is seen ! 
There goes the flying tortoise queen ! 
The queen ! ('twas thus the tortoise spoke ;) 
I'm truly that, without a joke. 
Much better had she held her tongue ; 
For, opening that whereby she clung, 
Before the gazing crowd she fell, 
And dash'd to bits her brittle shell. 

Imprudence, vanity, and babble, 

And idle curiosity, 
An ever-undivided rabble, 

Have all the same paternity. 



IV.— THE FISHES AND THE CORMORANT. 

No pond nor pool within his haunt 

But paid a certain cormorant 
Its contribution from its fishes, 
And stock'd his kitchen with good dishes. 

Yet, when old age the bird had chill'd, 

His kitchen was less amply fill'd. 

All cormorants, however grey, 

Must die, or for themselves purvey. 

But ours had now become so blind, 

His finny prey he could not find ; 

And, having neither hook nor net, 

His appetite was poorly met. 



What hope, with famine thus infested ? 
Necessity whom history mentions 
A famous mother of inventions, 
The following stratagem suggested : 
He found upon the water's brink 
A crab, to which said he, My friend, 
A weighty errand let me send ; 
Go quicker than a wink — 
Down to the fishes sink, 
And tell them they are doom'd to die : 
For, ere eight days have hasten'd by, 
Its lord will fish this water dry. 
The crab, as fast as she could scrabble, 
Went down, and told the scaly rabble. 
What bustling, gathering, agitation ! 
Straight up they send a deputation 
To wait upon the ancient bird. 
Sir Cormorant, whence hast thou heard 

This dreadful news ? And what 
Assurance of it hast thou got ? 
How such a danger can we shun ? 
Pray tell us, what is to be done ? 
Why, change your dwelling-place, said he, 
What, change our dwelling ! How can we ^ 
0, by your leave, I'll take that care, 
And, one by one, in safety bear 
You all to my retreat : 
The path 's unknown 

To any feet, 
Except my own. 
A pool, scoop 'd out by Nature's hands, 
Amidst the desert rocks and sands, 
Where human traitors never come, 
Shall save your people from their doom. 
The fish republic swallow'd all, 
And, coming at the fellow's call, 
Were singly borne away to stock 
A pond beneath a lonely rock ; 
And there good prophet cormorant, 
Proprietor and bailiff sole, 
From narrow water, clear and shoal, 
With ease supplied his daily want, 
And taught them, at their own expense, 
That heads well stored with common sense 
Give no devourers confidence. — 
Still did the change not hurt their case, 
Since, had they staid, the human race, 
Successful by pernicious art, 
Would have consumed as large a part. 
What matters who your flesh devours, 
Of human or of bestial powers % 
In this respect, or wild or tame, 
All stomachs seem to me the same : 
The odds is small, in point of sorrow, 
Of death to-day, or death to-morrow. 



V.— THE BURIER AND HIS COMRADE. 

A close-fist had his money hoarded 
Beyond the room his till afforded. 
His avarice aye growing ranker, 
(Whereby his mind of course grew blanker,) 
He was perplex' d to choose a banker ; 
For banker he must have, he thought, 
Or all his heap would come to nought. 
I fear, said he, if kept at home, 
And other robbers should not come, 



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It might be equal cause of grief 
That I had proved myself the thief. 
The thief ! Is to enjoy one's pelf 
To rob or steal it from one's self? 
My friend, could but my pity reach you, 
This lesson I would gladly teach you, 
That wealth is weal no longer than 
Diffuse and part with it you can : 
Without that power, it is a woe. 
Would you for age keep back its flow? 
Age buried 'neath its joyless snow ? 
With pains of getting, care of got 
Consumes the value, every jot, 
Of gold that one can never spare. 
To take the load of such a care, 
Assistants were not very rare. 
The earth was that which pleased him best. 
Dismissing thought of all the rest, 
He with his friend, his trustiest, — 
A sort of shovel-secretary, — 
Went forth his hoard to bury. 
Safe done, a few days afterward, 
The man must look beneath the sward — 
When, what a mystery ! behold 
The mine exhausted of its gold ! 
Suspecting, with the best of cause, 
His friend was privy to his loss, 
He bade him, in a cautious mood, 
To come as soon as well he could, 
For still some other coins he had, 
Which to the rest he wish'd to add. 
Expecting thus to get the whole, 
The friend put back the sum he stole, 
Then came with all despatch. 
The other proved an overmatch : 
Resolved at length to save by spending, 
His practice thus most wisely mending, 
The total treasure home he carried — 
No longer hoarded it or buried. 

Chapfallen was the thief, when gone 
He saw his prospects and his pawn. 

From this it may be stated, 

That knaves with ease are cheated. 



VI.— THE WOLF AND THE SHEPHERDS. 

A wolf, replete 

With humanity sweet, 
(A trait not much suspected,) 

On his cruel deeds, 

The fruit of his needs, 
Profoundly thus reflected. 

I'm hated, said he 

As joint enemy, 
By hunters, dogs, and clowns. 

They swear I shall die, 

And their hue and cry 
The very thunder drowns. 

My brethren have fled, 

With price on the head, 
From England's merry land. 

King Edgar came out, 

And put them to rout, 
With many a deadly band. 



And there 's not a squire 

But blows up the fire 
By hostile proclamation ; 

Nor a human brat 

Dares cry, but that 
Its mother mocks my nation. 

And all for what ? 

For a sheep with the rot, 
Or scabby, mangy ass, 

Or some snarling cur, 

With less meat than fur, 
On which I've broken fast ! 

Well, henceforth I'll strive 

That nothing alive 
Shall die to quench my thirst ; 

No lambkin shall fall, 

Nor puppy, at all, 
To glut my maw accurst. 

With grass I'll appease, 

Or browse on the trees, 
Or die of famine first. 

What of carcass warm ? 
Is it worth the storm 

Of universal hate ? 

As he spoke these words, 
The lords of the herds, 

All seated at their bait, 
He saw ; and observed 
The meat which was served 

Was nought but roasted lamb ! 
O ! ! said the beast, 
Repent of my feast — 

All butcher as I am — 
On these vermin mean, 
Whose guardians e'en 

Eat at a rate quadruple ! — 
Themselves and their dogs, 
As greedy as hogs, 

And I, a wolf, to scruple ! 

Look out for your wool ! 

I'll not be a fool, 
The very pet I'll eat ; 

The lamb the best-looking, 

Without any cooking, 
I'll strangle from the teat ; 

And swallow the dam, 

As well as the lamb, 
And stop her foolish bleat. 

Old Hornie, too, — rot him, — 

The sire that begot him 
Shall be among my meat ! 

Well-reasoning beast ! 

Were we sent to feast 
On creatures wild and tame ? 

And shall we reduce 

The beasts to the use 
Of vegetable game ? 

Shall animals not 
Have flesh-hook or pot, 

As in the age of gold ? 
And we claim the right, 
In the pride of our might, 

Themselves to have and hold \ 



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[book X. 



shepherds, that keep 
Your folds full of sheep, 

The wolf was only wrong 
Because, so to speak, 
His jaws were too weak 

To break your palings strong. 



VII.— THE SPIDER AND THE SWALLOW. 

Jupiter, whose fruitful brain, 
By odd obstetrics freed from pain, 
Bore Pallas, erst nay mortal foe, 
Pray listen to my tale of woe. 
This Progne takes my lawful prey. 
As through the ah' she cuts her way, 
And skims the waves in seeming play, 
My flies she catches from my door, — 

Yes, mine — I emphasize the word, — 

And, but for this accursed bird, 
My net would hold an ample store : 
For I have woven it of stuff 
To hold the strongest strong enough. — 
'Twas thus, in terms of insolence, 
Complain'd the fretful spider, once 

Of palace-tapestry a weaver, 

But then a spinster and deceiver, 
That hoped within her toils to bring 
Of insects all that ply the wing. 
The sister swift of Philomel, 
Intent on business, prosper'd well ; 
In spite of the complaining pest, 
The insects carried to her nest — 
Nest pitiless to suffering flies — 
Mouths gaping aye, to gormandise, 

Of young ones clamouring, 
And stammering, 
With unintelligible cries. 
The spider, with but head and feet, 

And powerless to compete 

With wings so fleet, 

Soon saw herself a prey. 
The swallow, passing swiftly by, 

Bore web and all away, 
The spinster dangling in the sky ! 

Two tables hath our Maker set 
F.or all that in this world are met. 
To seats around the first 
The skilful, vigilant, and strong are beckon'd : 

Their hunger and their thirst 
The rest must quell with leavings at the second. 



VIII.— THE PARTRIDGE AND THE COCKS. 

With a set of uncivil and turbulent cocks, 

That deserved for their noise to be put in the stocks, 

A partridge was placed to be rear'd. 

Her sex, by politeness revered,. 
Made her hope, from a gentry devoted to love, 
For the courtesy due to the tenderest dove ; 
Nay, protection chivalric from knights of the yard. 
That gentry, however, with little regard 
For the honours and knighthood wherewith they 

were deck'd, 
And for the strange lady as little respect, 
Her ladyship often most horribly peck'd. 



At first, she was greatly afflicted therefor, 

But when she had noticed these madcaps at war 

With each other, and dealing far bloodier blows, 

Consoling her own individual woes, — 

Entail'd by their, customs, said she, is the shame ; 

Let us pity the simpletons rather than blame. 

Our Maker creates not all spirits the same ; 

The cocks and the partridges certainly differ, 

By a nature than laws of civility stiffer. 

Were the choice to be mine, I would finish my life 

In society freer from riot and strife. 

But the lord of this soil has a different plan ; 
His tunnel our race to captivity brings, 
He throws us with cocks, after clipping our wings. 

'Tis little we have to complain of but man. 



IX.— THE DOG WHOSE EARS WERE CROPPED. 

What have I done, I'd like to know, 
To make my master maim me so I 
A pretty figure I shall cut ! 
From other dogs I'll keep, in kennel shut. 
Ye kings of beasts, or rather tyrants, ho ! 
Would any beast have served you so I 
Thus Growler cried, a mastiff young ; — 
The man, whom pity never stung, 
Went on to prune him of his ears. 
Though Growler whined about his losses, 
He found, before the lapse of years, 
Himself a gainer by the process ; 
For, being by his nature prone 
To fight his brethren for a bone, 
He'd oft come back from sad reverse 
With those appendages the worse. 
All snarling dogs have ragged ears. 

The less of hold for teeth of foe, 
The better will the battle go. 

When, in a certain place, one fears 
The chance of being hurt or beat, 
He fortifies it from defeat. 

Besides the shortness of his ears, 
See Growler arm'd against his likes 
With gorget full of ugly spikes. 
A wolf would find it quite a puzzle 
To get a hold about his muzzle. 



X.— THE SHEPHERD AND THE KING. 

Two demons at their pleasure share our being — 

The cause of Reason from her homestead fleeing ; 

No heart but on their altars kindleth flames. 

If you demand their purposes and names, 

The one is Love, the other is Ambition. 

Of far the greater share this' takes possession, 

For even into love it enters, 
Which I might prove ; but now my story centres 
Upon a shepherd clothed with lofty powers : 
The tale belongs to older times than ours. 

A king observed a flock, wide spread 
Upon the plains, most admirably fed, 
O'erpaying largely, as return 'd the years, 
Their shepherd's care, by harvests for his shears. 
Such pleasure in this man the monarch took, — 
Thou meritest, said he, to wield a crook 



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7f> 



O'er higher flock than this ; and my esteem 
'er men now makes thee judge supreme. 
Behold our shepherd, scales in hand, 
Although a hermit and a wolf or two, 
Besides his flock and dogs, were all he knew ! 
Well stock'd with sense, all else upon demand 
Would come of course, and did, we understand. 
His neighbour hermit came to him to say, 
Am I awake ? Is this no dream, I pray ? 
You favourite ! you great ! beware of kings 

Their favours are but slippery things, 
Dear-bought ; to mount the heights to which they call 
Is but to court a more illustrious fall. 
You little know to what this lure beguiles 
My friend, I say, Beware. The other smiles. 

The hermit adds, See how 
The court has marr'd your wisdom even now ! 
That purblind traveller I seem to see, 
Who, having lost his whip, by strange mistake, 

Took for a better one a snake ; 
But, while he thank'd his stars, brimful of glee, 
Outcried a passenger, God shield your breast ! 
Why, man, for life, throw down that treacherous pest, 
That snake ! — It is my whip. — A snake, I say : 
What selfish end could prompt my warning, pray ? 
Think you to keep your prize 1 — And wherefore not ? 
My whip was worn ; I've found another new : 
This counsel grave from envy springs in you.— 
The stubborn wight would not believe a jot, 
Till warm and lithe the serpent grew, 
And, striking with his venom, slew 
The man almost upon the spot. 
And as to you, I dare predict 
That something worse will soon afflict. 
Indeed 1 What worse than death, prophetic hermit 1 
Perhaps the compound heartache I may term it. 
And never was there truer prophecy. 
Full many a courtier pest, by many a lie, 

Contrived, and many a cruel slander, 
To make the king suspect the judge awry 

In both ability and candour. 
Cabals were raised, and dark conspiracies, 
Of men that felt aggrieved by his decrees. 
With wealth of ours he hath a palace built, 
Said they. The king, astonish 'd. at his guilt, 
His ill got riches ask'd to see. 
He found but mediocrity, 
Bespeaking strictest honesty. 
So much for his magnificence. 
Anon, his plunder was a hoard immense 
Of precious stones that fill'd an iron box, 
All fast secured by half a score of locks. 
Himself the coffer oped, and sad surprise 
Befell those manufacturers of lies. 
The open'd lid disclosed no other matters 
Than, first, a shepherd's suit in tatters, 
And then a cap and jacket, pipe and crook, 
And scrip, mayhap with pebbles from the brook. 
O treasure sweet, said he, that never drew 
The viper brood of envy's lies on you ! 
I take you back, and leave this palace splendid, 
As some roused sleeper doth a dream that's ended. 
Forgive me, sire, this exclamation. 
In mounting up, my fall I had foreseen, 
Yet loved the height too well; for who hath been, 
Of mortal race, devoid of all ambition \ 



XL— THE FISHES AND THE SHEPHERD WHO 
PLAYED THE FLUTE. 

Thyrsis — who for his Annette dear 

Made music with his flute and voice, 
Which might have roused the dead to hear, 
And in their silent graves rejoice — 
Sang once the livelong day, 
In the flowery month of May, 
Up and down a meadow brook, 
While Annette fish'd with line and hook. 
But ne'er a fish would bite ; 
So the shepherdess's bait 
Drew not a fish to its fate, 
From morning dawn till night. 
The shepherd, who, by his charming songs, 
Had drawn savage beasts to him in throngs, 
And done with them as he pleased to, 
Thought that he could serve the fish so. 
citizens, he sang, of this water, 

Leave your Naiad in her grot profound ; 
Come and see the blue sky's lovely daughter, 

Who a thousand times more will charm you j 
Fear not that her prison will harm you, 
Though there you should chance to get bound. 
'Tis only to us men she is cruel : 
You she will treat kindly ; 
A snug little pond she'll find ye, 
Clearer than a crystal jewel, 
Where you may all live and do well ; 
Or, if by chance some few 
Should find their fate 
Conceal'd in the bait, 
The happier still are you ; 
For envied is the death that's met 
At the hands of sweet Annette. 
This eloquence not effecting 

The object of his wishes, 
Since it failed in collecting 
The deaf and dumb fishes, — 
His sweet preaching wasted, 
His honey 'd talk untasted, 
A net the shepherd seized, and, pouncing 

With a fell scoop at the scaly fry, 
He caught them ; and now, madly flouncing, 
At the feet of his Annette they lie ! 

ye shepherds, whose sheep men are, 
To trust in reason never dare. 
The arts of eloquence sublime 

Are not within your calling ; 
Your fish were caught, from oldest time, 

By dint of nets and hauling. 



X1L— THE TWO PARROTS, THE KING, AND 
HIS SON. 

Two parrots lived, a sire and son, 
On roastings from a royal fire. 
Two demigods, a son and sire, 

These parrots pension'd for their fun. 

Time tied the knot of love sincere : 

The sires grew to each other dear ; 
The sons, in spite of their frivolity, 
Grew comrades boon, in joke and jollity; 

At mess they mated, hot or cool ; 

Were fellow-scholars at a school, 



205 



76 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



[book X. 



Which did the bird no little honour, since 
The boy, by king begotten, was a prince. 
By nature fond of birds, the prince, too, petted 
A sparrow, which delightfully coquetted. 

These rivals, both of unripe feather, 
One day were frolicking together : 
As oft befalls such little folks, 
A quarrel follow'd from their jokes. 
The sparrow, quite uncircumspect, 
Was by the parrot sadly peck'd ; 
With drooping wing and bloody head, 
His master pick'd him up for dead, 
And, being quite too wroth to bear it, 
In heat of passion kill'd his parrot. 

When this sad piece of news he heard, 
Distracted was the parent bird. 
His piercing cries bespoke his pain ; 
But cries and tears were all in vain. 
The talking bird had left the shore* ; 
In short, he, talking now no more, 
Caused such a rage to seize his sire, 
That, lighting on the prince in ire, 

He put out both his eyes, 
And fled for safety as was wise. 
The bird a pine for refuge chose, 
And to its lofty summit rose ; 
There, in the bosom of the skies, 

Enjoy'd his vengeance sweet, 
And scorn'd the wrath beneath his feet- 
Out ran the king, and cried, in soothing tone, 
Return, dear friend ; what serves it to bemoan ? 
Hate, vengeance, mourning, let us both omit. 
For me, it is no more than fit 
To own, though with an aching heart, 
The wrong is wholly on our part. 
Th' aggressor truly was my son — 
My son ? no ; but by Fate the deed was done. 
Ere birth of Time, stern Destiny 
Had written down the sad decree, 
That by this sad calamity 
Your child should cease to live, and mine to see. 

Let both, then, cease to mourn ; 
And you, back to your cage return. 

Sire king, replied the bird, 
Think you that, after such a deed, 
I ought to trust your word ? 
You speak of Fate ; by such a heathen creed 
Hope you that I shall be enticed to bleed % 
But whether Fate or Providence divine 

Gives law to things below, 
'Tis writ on high, that on this waving pine, 
Or where wild forests grow, 
My days I finish, safely, far 
From that which ought your love to mar, 
And turn it all to hate. 
Revenge, I know, 's a kingly morsel, 
And ever hath been part and parcel 
Of this your godlike state. 
You would forget the cause of grief ; 
Suppose I grant you my belief, — 
'Tis better still to make it true, 
By keeping out of sight of you. 
Sire king, my friend, no longer wait 

For friendship to be heal'd ; 

But absence is the cure of hate, 
As 'tis from love the shield. 

* " Stygia natabat jam frigida cymba." — Virg. 



XIII.— THE LIONESS AND THE BEAR. 

The lioness had lost her young ; 

A hunter stole it from the vale ; 
The forests and the mountains rung 

Responsive to her hideous wail. 
Nor night, nor charms of sweet repose, 
Could still the loud lament that rose 

From that grim forest queen. 
No animal, as you might think, 
With such a noise could sleep a wink. 
A bear presumed to intervene. 

One word, sweet friend, quoth she, 
And that is all, from me. 
The young that through your teeth have pass'd, 
In file unbroken by a fast, 

Had they nor dam nor sire ? 
They had them both. Then I desire, 
Since all their deaths caused no such grievous riot, 
While mothers died of grief beneath your fiat, 
To know why you yourself cannot be quiet ? 
I quiet ! — I ! — a wretch bereaved ! 
My only son ! — such anguish be relieved ! 
No, never ! All for me below 

Is but a life of tears and woe ! 

But say, why doom yourself to sorrow so ? 
Alas ! 'tis Destiny that is my foe. 

Such language, since the mortal fall, 

Has fallen from the lips of all. 

Ye human wretches, give your heed ; 

For your complaints there's little need. 
Let him who thinks his own the hardest case, 

Some widow'd, childless Hecuba behold, 

Herself to toil and shame of slavery sold, 
And he will own the wealth of heavenly grace. 



XIV.— THE TWO ADVENTURERS AND THE 
TALISMAN. 

No flowery path to glory leads. 
This truth no better voucher needs 
Than Hercules, of mighty deeds. 
Few demigods, the tomes of fable 
Reveal to us as being able 
Such weight of task-work to endure : 
In history, I find still fewer. 

One such, however, here behold— 
A knight by talisman made bold, 
Within the regions of romance, 
To seek adventures with the lance. 
There rode a comrade at his side, 
And as they rode they both espied 

This writing on a post : — 
" Wouldst see, sir valiant knight, 
A thing whereof the sight 

No errant yet can boast ? 
Thou hast this torrent but to ford, 

And, lifting up alone 

The elephant of stone 

Upon its margin shored, 
Upbear it to the mountain's brow, 
Round which, aloft before thee now, 

The misty chaplets wreathe — 

Not stopping once to breathe." 

One knight, whose nostrils bled, 

Betokening courage fled, 



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THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



77 



Cried out, What if that current's sweep 
Not only rapid be, but deep ! 
And grant it cross'd, — pray, why encumber 
One's arms with that unwieldy lumber, 
An elephant of stone? 
Perhaps the artist may have done 
His work in such a way, that one 

Might lug it- twice its length ; 
But then to reach yon mountain top, 
And that without a breathing stop, 

Were surely past a moi'tal's strength— 
Unless, indeed, it be no bigger 
Than some wee, pigmy, dwarfish figure, 
Which one would head a cane withal ; — 
And if to this the case should fall, 
The adventurer's honour would be small ! 
This posting seems to me a trap, 
Or riddle for some greenish chap ; 

I therefore leave the whole to you. 
The doubtful reasoner onward hies. 
With heart resolved, in spite of eyes, 
The other boldly dashes through ; 
Nor depth of flood nor force 
Can stop his onward course. 
He finds the elephant of stone ; 
He lifts it all alone ; 
Without a breathing stop, 
He bears it to the top 
Of that steep mount, and seeth there 
A high-wall' d city, great and fair. 
Out-cried the elephant — and hush'd ; 
But forth in arms the people rush'd. 
A knight less bold had surely fled ; 
But he, so far from turning back, 
His course right onward sped, 

Resolved himself to make attack, 
And die but with the bravest dead. 
Amazed was he to hear that band 
Proclaim him monarch of their land, 
And welcome him, in place of one 
Whose death had left a vacant throne ! 
In sooth, he lent a gracious ear, 
Meanwhile expressing modest fear, 
Lest such a load of royal care 
Should be too great for him to bear. 
And so, exactly, Sixtus said, 
When first the pope's tiara press'd his head ; 
(Though, is it such a grievous thing 
To be a pope, or be a king ?) 
But days were few before they read it 
That with but little truth he said it. 

Blind Fortune follows daring blind. 

Oft executes the wisest man, 
Ere yet the wisdom of his mind 

Is task'd his means or end to scan. 



XV.— THE RABBITS. 

AN ADDRESS 'l^TTHE DUKE DE LA ROCHEFOUCAULD. 

While watching man in all his phases, 
And seeing that, in many cases, 

He acts just like the brute creation, — 
I've thought the lord of all these races 
Of no less failings show'd the traces 

Than do his lieges in relation ; 
And that, in making it, Dame Nature 
Hath put a spice in every creature 



From off the self-same spirit-stuff — 
Not from the immaterial, 
But what we call ethereal, 

Refined from matter rough. 
An illustration please to hear. 
Just on the still frontier 
Of either day or night, — 
Or when the lord of light 
Reclines his radiant head 
Upon his watery bed, 
Or when he dons the gear, 
To drive a new career, — 
While yet with doubtful sway 
The hour is ruled 'twixt night and dav,__ . 
Some border forest-tree I climb ; 
And, acting Jove, from height sublime 
My fatal bolt at will directing, 
I kill some rabbit unsuspecting. 
The rest that frolick'd on the heath, 
Or browsed the thyme with dainty teoth, 

With open eye and watchful ear, 
Behold, all scampering from beneath, 

Instinct with mortal fear. 
All, frighten'd simply by the sound, 
Hie to their city underground. 
But soon the danger is forgot, 
And just as soon the fear lives not : 
The rabbits, gayer than before, 
I see beneath my hand once more ! 

Are not mankind well pictured here ? 
By storms asunder driven, 
They scarcely reach their haven, 
And cast their anchor, ere 
They tempt the same dread shocks 
Of tempests, waves, and rocks. 
True rabbits, back they frisk 
To meet the self-same risk ! 

I add another common case. 

When dogs pass through a place 

Beyond their customary bounds, 
And meet with others, curs or hounds, 
Imagine what a holiday ! 
The native dogs, whose interests centre 
In one great organ, term'd the venter, 

The strangers rush at, bite, and bay ; 
With cynic pertness tease and worry, 
And chase them off their territory. 
So, too, do men. Wealth, grandeur, glory, 
To men of office or profession, 
Of every sort, in every nation, 
As tempting are, and sweet, 
As is to dogs the refuse meat. 
With us, it is a general fact, 
One sees the latest-come attack'd, 

And plunder'd to the skin. 
Coquettes and authors we may view, 

As samples of the sin ; 
For woe to belle or writer new ! 
The fewer eaters round the cake, 
The fewer players for the stake, 
The surer each one's self to take. 
A hundred facts my truth might test J 
But shortest works are always best. 
In this I but pursue the chart 
Laid down by masters of the art ; 
And, on the best of themes, I hold, 
The truth should never all be told. 



207 



78 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



[book xr. 



Hence, here my sermon ought to close, 
O thou, to whom my fable owes 
Whate'er it has of solid worth,— 
Who, great by modesty as well as birth, 
Hast ever counted praise a pain, — 
Whose leave I could so ill obtain 
That here your name, receiving homage, 
Should save from every sort of damage 

My slender works — which name, well known 
To nations, and to ancient Time, 

All France delights to own, 
Herself more rich in names sublime 
Than any other earthly clime ; — 
Permit me here the world to teach 

That you have given my simple rhyme 
The text from which it dares to preach. 



XVI.— THE MERCHANT, THE NOBLE, THE 
SHEPHERD, AND THE KING'S SON. 



Four voyagers to parts unknown, 
On shore, not far from naked, thrown 
By furious waves, — a merchant now undone, 
A noble, shepherd, and a monarch's son, — 
Bi'ought to the lot of Belisarius*, 
Their wants supplied on alms precarious. 
To tell what fates, and winds, and weather, 
Had brought these mortals all together, 
Though from far distant points abscinded, 
Would make my tale long-winded. 
Suffice to say, that, by a fountain met 

In council grave, these outcasts held debate. 
The prince enlarged, in an oration set, 
Upon the miseries that befall the great. 
The shepherd deem'd it best to cast 
Off thought of all misfortune past, 
And each to do the best he could, 
In efforts for the common weal. 
Did ever a repining mood, 

He added, a misfortune heall 
Toil, friends, will take us back to Rome, 
Or make us here as good a home. 
A shepherd so to speak ! a shepherd ? What ! 
As though crown'd heads were not, 
By Heaven's appointment fit, 
The sole receptacles of wit ! 
As though a shepherd could be deeper, 
In thought or knowledge, than his sheep are ! 
The three, howe'er, at once approved his plan, 
Wreck'd as they were on shores American. 
I'll teach arithmetic, the merchant said, — 
Its rules, of course, well seated in his head, — 
For monthly pay. The prince replied, And I 
Will teach political economy. 
And I, the noble said, in heraldry 
Well versed, will open for that branch a school — 
As if, beyond a thousand leagues of sea, 
That senseless jargon could befool ! 
My friends, you talk like men, 
The shepherd cried, but then 

* Belisarius was a great general, who, having com- 
manded the armies of the emperor, and lost the favour of 
his master, fell to such a point of destitution that he asked 
alms upon the highways.— Note of La Fontaine. 

The touching story of the fall of Belisarius, of which 
painters and poets have made so much, is entirely false, as 
may he seen by consulting Gibbon's " Decline and Fall of 
the Roman Empire," chap, xliii. — Translator. 



The month has thirty days ; till they are spent, 
Are we upon your faith to keep full Lent ? 
The hope you give is truly good ; 
But, ere it comes, we starve for food ! 
Pray tell me, if you can divine, 
On what, to-morrow, we shall dine ; 
Or tell me, rather, whence we may 
Obtain a supper for to-day. 
This point, if truth should, be confess' d, 
Is first, and vital to the rest. 
Your science short in this respect, 
My hands shall cover the defect. — 
This said, the nearest woods he sought, 
And thence for market fagots brought, 
Whose price that day, and eke the next, 
Relieved the company perplex'd — 
Forbidding that, by fasting, they should go 
To use their talents in the world below. 

We learn, from this adventure's course, 
There needs but little skill to get a living. 
Thanks to the gifts of Nature's giving, 

Our hands are much the readiest resource. 



BOOK XI. 



L— THE LION. 

Some time ago, a sultan Leopard, 
By means of many a rich escheat, 
Had many an ox in meadow, sweet, 
And many a stag in forest, fleet, 
And (what a savage sort of shepherd !) 
Full many a sheep upon the plains, 
That lay within his wide domains. 
Not far away, one morn, 
There was a lion born. 
Exchanged high compliments of state, 
As is the custom with the great, 
The sultan call'd his vizier Fox, 
Who had a deeper knowledge-box, 
And said to him, This lion's whelp you dread 
What can he do, his father being dead ? 
Our pity rather let him share, 
An orphan so beset with care. 
The luckiest lion ever known, 
If, letting conquest quite alone, 
He should have power to keep his own. 
Sir Renard said, 
And shook his head, 
Such orphans, please your majesty, 
Will get no pity out of me. 
We ought to keep within his favour, 
Or else with all our might endeavour 
To thrust him out of life and throne, 
Ere yet his claws and teeth are grown. 
There's not a moment to be lost. 

His horoscope I've cast ; 
He'll never quarrel to bis cost ; 

But then his friendship fast 
Will be to friends of greater worth 
Than any lion's e'er on earth. 
Try then, my liege, to make it ours, 
Or else to check his rising powers. 

The warning fell in vain. 
The sultan slept ; and beasts and men 
Did so, throughout his whole domain, 



208 



Book xi.] THE FABLES OF 


LA FONTAINE. 7» 


Till lion's whelp became a lion. 


Nor did the boy too little yearn 


Then came at once the tocsin cry on, 


His lesson infinite to learn. 


Alarm and fluttering consternation. 


Said fiery Mars, I take the part 


The vizier call'd to consultation, 


To make him master of the art 


A sigh escaped him as he said, 


Whereby so many heroes high 


Why all this mad excitement now, 


Have won the honours of the sky. 


When hope is fled, no matter how % 


To teach him music be my care, 


A thousand men were useless aid, — 


Apollo said, the wise and fair ; 


The more, the worse, — since all their power 


And mine, that mighty god replied, 


Would be our mutton to devour. 


In the Nemsean lion's hide, 


Appease this lion ; sole he doth exceed 


To teach him to subdue 


The helpers all that on us feed. 


The vices, an envenom 'd crew, 


And three hath he, that cost him nought.— 


Like Hydras springing ever new. 


His courage, strength, and watchful thought. 


The foe of weakening luxury, 


Quick send a wether for his use : 


The boy divine will learn from me 


If not contented, send him more; 


Those rugged paths, so little trod, 


Yes, add an ox, and see you choose 


That lead to glory man and god. 


The best our pastures ever bore. 


Said Cupid, when it came his turn, 


Thus save the rest. — But such advice 


All things from me the boy may learn. 


The sultan spurn'd, as cowardice. 
And his, and many states beside, 
Did ills, in consequence, betide. 




Well spoke the god of love. 


What feat of Mars, or Hercules, 


However fought this world allied, 


Or bright Apollo, lies above 
Wit, wing'd by a' desire to please ? 


The beast maintain'd his power and pride. 


If you must let the lion grow, 




Don't let him live to be your foe. 


III.— THE FARMER, THE DOG, AND THE FOX 




II.— THE GODS WISHING TO INSTRUCT A SON 





OF JUPITER. 


The wolf and fox are neighbours strange : 


FOR MONSEIGNEUR THE DUKE DU MAINE. 


I would not build within their range. 





The fox once eyed with strict regard 


To Jupiter was born a son, 


From day to day, a poultry-yard ; 


Who, conscious of his origin, 


But though a most accomplished cheat, 


A godlike spirit had within. 


He could not get a fowl to eat. 


To love, such age is little prone ; 


Between the risk and appetite, 


Yet this celestial boy 


His rogueship's trouble was not slight. 


Made love his chief employ, 


Alas ! quoth he, this stupid rabble 


And was beloved wherever known. 


But mock me with their constant gabble ; 


In him both love and reason 


I go and come, and rack my brains, 


Sprang up before their season. 


And get my labour for my pains. 


With charming smiles and manners winning, 


Your rustic owner, safe at home, 


Had Flora deck'd his life's beginning, 


Takes all the profits as they come : 


As an Olympian became : 


He sells his capons and his chicks, 


Whatever lights the tender flame, — 


Or keeps them hanging on his hook, 


A heart to take and render bliss, — 


All dress'd and ready for his cook ; 


Tears, sighs, in short the whole were his. 


But I, adept in art and tricks, 


Jove's son, he should of course inherit 


Should I but catch the toughest crower, 


A higher and a nobler spirit 


Should be brimful of joy, and more. 


Than sons of other deities. 


Jove supreme, why was I made 


It seem'd as if by Memory's aid — 


A master of the fox's trade ? 


As if a previous life had made 


By all the higher powers and lower, 


Experiment and hid it — 


I swear to rob this chicken-grower ! 


He plied the lover's hard-learn'd trade, 


Revolving such revenge within, 


So perfectly he did it. 


When night had still'd the various din, 


Still Jupiter would educate 


And poppies seem'd to bear full sway 


In manner fitting to his state. 


O'er man and dog, as lock'd they lay 


The gods, obedient to his call, 


Alike secure in slumber deep, 


Assemble in their council-hall ; 


And cocks and hens were fast asleep, 


When thus the sire : Companionless and sole, 


Upon the populous roost he stole. 


Thus far the boundless universe I roll ; 


By negligence, — a common sin, — 


But numerous other offices there are, 


The farmer left unclosed the hole, 


Of which I give to younger gods the care. 


And, stooping down, the fox went in. 


I'm now forecasting for this cherish'd child, 


The blood of every fowl was spill'd, 


Whose countless altars are already piled ; 


The citadel with murder fill'd. 


To merit such regard from all below, 


The dawn disclosed sad sights, I ween, 


All things the young immortal ought to know 


When heaps on slaughter'd heaps were seen, 


No sooner had the Thunderer ended, 


All weltering in their mingled gore. 


Than each his godlike plan commended ; 


With horror stricken, as of yore, 



209 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



[book XL 



The sun well nigh shrunk back again, 
To hide beneath the liquid main. 
Such sight once saw the Trojan plain, 
When on the fierce Atrides' head 

Apollo's awful anger fell, 
And strew'd the crimson field with dead : 

Of Greeks, scarce one was left to tell 
The carnage of that night so dread. 
Such slaughter, too, around his tent, 
The furious Ajax made, one night, 
Of sheep and goats, in easy fight ; 
In anger blindly confident 
That by his well-directed blows 
Ulysses fell, or some of those 
By whose iniquity and lies 
That wily rival took the prize. 
The fox, thus having Ajax play'd, 
Bore off the nicest of the brood, — 
As many pullets as he could, — 
And left the rest, all prostrate laid. 
The owner found his sole resource 
His servants and his dog to curse. 
You useless puppy, better drovvn'd ! 
Why did you not your 'larum sound ? 
Why did you not the evil shun, 
Quoth Towser, as you might have done ? 
If you, whose interest was more. 
Could sleep and leave au open door, 
Think you that I, a dog at best, 
Would watch, and lose my precious rest \ 
This pithy speech had been, in truth, 
Good logic in a master's mouth ; 
But, coming from a menial's lip, 
It even lack'd the lawyership 
To save poor Towser from the whip. 

O thou who head'st a family, 
(An honour never grudged by me,) 
Thou art a patriarch unwise, 
To sleep, and trust another's eyes. 
Thyself shouldst go to bed the last, 
Thy doors all seen to, shut and fast. 
I charge you never let a fox see 
Your special business done by proxy. 



IV.— THE MOGUL'S DREAM. 

Long since, a Mogul saw, in dream, 

A vizier in Elysian bliss ; 
No higher joy could be or seem, 

Or purer, than was ever his. 
Elsewhere was dream 'd of by the same 
A wretched hermit wrapp'd in flame, 
Whose lot e'en touch'd, so pain'd was he, 
The partners of his misery. 
Was Minos mock'd 1 or had these ghosts, 
By some mistake, exchanged their posts ? 
Surprise at this the vision broke ; 
The dreamer suddenly awoke. 

Some mystery suspecting in it, 

He got a wise one to explain it. 
Replied the sage interpreter, 
Let not the thing a marvel seem : 
There is a meaning in your dream : ^ 

If I have aught of knowledge, sir, 
It covers counsel from the gods. 
While tenanting these clay abodes, 



This vizier sometimes gladly sought 
The solitude that favours thought ; 
Whereas, the hermit, in his cot, 
Had longings for a vizier's lot. 
To this intex'pretation dared I add, 

The love of solitude I would inspire. 
It satisfies the heart's desire 
With unencumber'd gifts and glad — 
Heaven-planted joys, of stingless sweet, 
Aye springing up beneath our feet. 

Solitude, whose secret charms I know — 
Retreats that I have loved — when shall I go 
To taste, far from a world of din and noise, 
Your shades so fresh, where silence has a voice % 
When shall their soothing gloom my refuge be ? 

When shall the sacred Nine, from courts afar, 

And cities with all solitude at war, 
Engross entire, and teach their votary 
The stealthy movements of the spaugled nights, 
The names and virtues of those errant lights 
Which rule o'er human character and fate ? 
Or, if not born to purposes so great, 
The streams, at least, shall win my heartfelt thanks, 
While, in my verse, I paint their flowery banks. 
Fate shall not weave my life with golden thread, 
Nor, 'neath rich fret-work, on a purple bed, 
Shall I repose, full late, my care-worn head. 

But will my sleep be less a treasure \ 

Less deep, thereby, and full of pleasure \ 

1 vow it, sweet and gentle as the dew, 
Within those deserts sacrifices new ; 

And when the time shall come to yield my breath, 
Without remorse I'll join the ranks of Death. 



V.— THE LION, THE MONKEY, AND THE 
TWO ASSES. 

The lion, for his kingdom's sake, 
In morals would some lessons take, 
And therefore call'd, one summer's day, 
The monkey, master of the arts, 
An animal of brilliant parts, 
To hear what he could say. 
Great king, the monkey thus began, 
To reign upon the wisest plan 
Requires a prince to set his zeal, 
And passion for the public weal, 
Distinctly and quite high above 
A certain feeling call'd self-love, 
The parent of all vices, 
In creatures of all sizes. 
To will this feeling from one's breast away, 
Is not the easy labour of a day ; 
'Tis much to moderate its tyrant sway. 
By that your majesty august 
Will execute your royal trust 
From folly free and aught unjust. 
Give me, replied the king, 
Example of each thing. 
Each species, said the sage, — 
And I begin with ours, — 
Exalts its own peculiar powers 
Above sound reason's gauge. 
Meanwhile, all other kinds and tribes 
As fools and blockheads it describes, 
With other compliments as cheap. 
But, on the other hand, the same 

Self-love inspires a beast to heap 
The highest pyramid of fame 



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THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



81 



For every one that bears his name ; 
Because he justly deems such praise 
The easiest way himself to raise. 
'Tis my conclusion in the case, 

That many a talent here below 
Is but cabal, or sheer grimace, — 

The art of seeming things to know — 
An art in which perfection lies 
More with the ignorant than wise. 

Two asses tracking, t'other day, 
Of which each in his turn 
Did incense to the other burn, 
Quite in the usual way, — 
I heard one to his comrade say, 
My lord, do you not find 
The prince of knaves and fools 
To be this man, who boasts of mind 
Instructed in his schools ! 
With wit unseemly and profane, 

He mocks our venerable race — 
On each of his who lacketh brain 
Bestows our ancient surname, ass ! 
And, with ahusive tongue portraying, 
Describes our laugh and talk as braving ! 
These bipeds of their folly tell us, 
While thus pretending to excel us. 
No, 'tis for you to speak, my friend, 
And let their orators attend. 
The braying is their own, but let them be : 
We understand each other, and agree, 
And that's enough. As for your song, 
Such wonders to its notes belong, 
The nightingale is put to shame, 
And Lambert loses half his fame. 
My lord, the other ass replied, 
Such talents in yourself reside, 
Of asses all, the joy and pride. 
These donkeys, not quite satisfied 
With scratching thus each other's hide, 
Must needs the cities visit, 
Their fortunes there to raise, 
By sounding forth the praise, 
Each, of the other's skill exquisite. 
Full many, in this age of ours, — 
Not only among asses, 
But in the higher classes, 
Whom Heaven hath clothed with higher powers, — 
Dared they but do it, would exalt 
A simple innocence from fault, 
Or virtue common and domestic, 
To excellence majestic. 
I've said too much, perhaps ; but I suppose 
Your majesty the secret won't disclose, 
Since 'twas your majesty's request that I 

This matter should exemplify. 
How love of self gives food to ridicule, 
I've shown. To prove the balance of my rule, 
That justice is a sufferer thereby, 
A longer time will take.— 

'Twas thus the monkey spake. 
But my informant does not state, 
That e'er the sage did demonstrate 
The other point, more delicate. 
Perhaps he thought none but a fool 
A lion would too strictly school. 



YL— THE WOLF AND THE FOX. 

Why iEsop gave the palm of cunning, 
O'er flying animals and running, 
To Renard Fox, I cannot tell, 
Though I have search'd the subject well. 
Hath not Sir Wolf an equal skill 

In tricks and artifices shown, 
When he would do some life an ill, 
Or from his foes defend his own ? 
I think he hath ; and, void of disrespect, 
I might, perhaps, my master contradict : 
Yet here 's a case, in which the burrow-lodger 
Was palpably, I own, the brightest dodger. 
One night he spied within a well, 
Wherein the fullest moonlight fell, 

What seem'd to him an ample cheese. 
Two balanced buckets took their turns 
When drawers thence would fill their urns. 

Our fox went down in one of these, 
By hunger greatly press'd to sup, 
And drew the other empty up. 
Convinced at once of his mistake, 
And anxious for his safety's sake, 
He saw his death was near and sure, 
Unless some other wretch in need 
The same moon's image should allure 
To take a bucket and succeed 
To his predicament, indeed. 
Two days pass'd by, and none approaclvd the well ; 
Unhalting Time, as is his wont, 
Was scooping from the" moon's full front, 
And as he scoop'd Sir Renard's courage fell. 
His crony wolf, of clamorous maw ; 
Poor fox at last above him saw, 
And cried, My comrade,* look you here ! 
See what abundance of good cheer ! 
A cheese of most delicious zest ! 
Which Faunus must himself have press'd, 
Of milk by heifer Io given. 
If Jupiter were sick in heaven, 
The taste would bring his appetite. 
I've taken, as you see, a bite ; 
But still for both there is a plenty. 
Pray take the bucket that I've sent ye ; 
Come down, and get your share. 
Although, to make the story fair, 
The fox had used his utmost care, 
The wolf (a fool to give him credit) 
Went down because his stomach bid it — 
And by his weight pull'd up 
Sir Renard to tiie top. 

We need not mock this simpleton, 
For we ourselves such deeds have done. 
Our faith is prone to lend its ear 
To aught which we desire or fear. 



VH— THE PEASANT OF THE DANUBE. 

To judge no man by outside view, 
Is good advice, though not quite new. 
Some time ago, a mouse's fright 
Upon this moral shed some light. 

I have for proof at present, 
With iEsop and good Socrates, 
Of Danube's banks a certain peasant, 
Whose portrait drawn to life one sees, 
By Marc Aurelius, if you please. 



211 



82 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



[BOOK XI 



The first are well known, far and near : 
I briefly sketch the other here. 
The crop upon his fertile chin 
Was anything but soft or thin ; 
Indeed, his person, clothed in hair, 
Might personate an unlick'd bear. 
Beneath his matted brow there lay 
An eye that squinted every way ; 
A crooked nose and monstrous lips he bore, 
And goat-skin round his trunk he wore, 
With bulrush belt. And such a man as this is 
Was delegate from towns the Danube kisses, 
When not a nook on earth there linger d 
By Roman avarice not finger'd. 
Before the senate thus he spoke : — 

Romans and senators who hear 
I, first of all, the gods invoke, 

The powers whom mortals justly fear, 
That from my tongue there may not fall 
A word which I may need recall. 
Without their aid there enters nought 

To human hearts of good or just : 
Whoever leaves the same unsought, 

Is prone to violate his trust ; 
The prey of Roman avarice, 
Ourselves are witnesses of this. 
Rome, by our crimes, our scourge has grown, 
More than by valour of our own. 
Romans, beware lest Heaven, some day, 
Exact for all our groans the pay, 
And, arming us, by just reverse, 

To do its vengeance, stern, but meet, 
Shall pour on you the vassal's curse, 

And place your necks beneath our feet ! 
And wherefore not % For are you better 

Than hundreds of the tribes diverse 
Who clank the galling Roman fetter ? 
What right gives you the universe ? 
Why come and mar our quiet life ? 
We till'd our acres free from strife ; 
In arts our hands were skill'd to toil, 
As well as o'er the generous soil. 
What have you taught the Germans brave ? 
Apt scholars, had but they 
Your appetite for sway, 
They might, instead of you, enslave, 

Without your inhumanity. 
That which your praetors perpetrate 
On us, as subjects of your state, 
My powers would fail me to relate. 
Profaned their altars and their rites, 
The pity of your gods our lot excites. 
Thanks to your representatives, 
In you they see but shameless thieves,' 
Who plunder gods as well as men. 
By sateless avarice insane, 
The men that rule our land from this 
Are like the bottomless abyss. 
To satisfy their lust of gain, 
Both man and nature toil hi vain. 
Recall them ; for indeed we will 
Our fields for such no longer till. 
From all our towns and plains we fly 
For refuge to our mountains high. 
We quit our homes and tender wives, 
To lead with savage beasts our lives — 
No more to welcome into day 
A progeny for Rome a prey. 
And as to those already born — 

Poor helpless babes forlorn ! — 



We wish them short career in time : 

Your praetors force us to the crime. 
Are they our teachers % Call them home, — 

They teach but luxury and vice, — 
Lest Germans should their likes become, 

In fell remorseless avarice. 
Have we a remedy at Rome % 

I'll tell you here how matters go. 

Hath one no present to bestow, 

No purple for a judge or so, 
The laws for him are deaf and dumb ; 

Their minister has aye in store 

A thousand hindrances or more. 

I'm sensible that truths like these 
Are not the things to please. 

I've done. Let death avenge you here 
Of my complaint, a little too sincere. 

He said no more ; but all admired 

The thought with which his speech was fired 

The eloquence and heart of oak 

With which the prostrate savage spoke. 
Indeed, so much were all delighted, 
As due revenge, the man was knighted. 

The praetors were at once displaced, 

And better men the office graced. 

The senate, also, by decree, 
Besought a copy of the speech, 

Which might to future speakers be 
A model for the use of each. 

Not long, howe'er, had Rome the sense 

To entertain such eloquence. 



VIH.-THE OLD MAN AND THE THREE YOUNG 
ONES. 

A man was planting at fourscore. 

Three striplings, who their satchels wore, 

In building, cried, the sense were more ; 
But then to plant young trees at that age ! 
The man is surely in his dotage. 

Pray, in the name of common sense, 
What fruit can he expect to gather 

Of all this labour and expense? 
Why, he must live like Lamech's father ! 

What use for thee, grey-headed man, 

To load the remnant of thy span 
With care for days that never can be thine ? 
Thyself to thought of errors past resign. 

Long-growing hope, and lofty plan, 
Leave thou to us, to whom such things belong. 
To you ! replied the old man hale and strong ; 
I dare pronounce you altogether wrong. 

The settled part of man's estate 

Is very brief', and comes full late. 

To those pale, gaming sisters trine, 

Your fives are stakes as well as mine. 
While so uncertain is the sequel, 
Our terms of future life are equal ; 
For none can tell who last shall close his eyes 
Upon the glories of these azure skies ; 
Nor any moment give us, ere it flies, 
Assurance that another such shall rise. 
But my descendants, whosoe'er they be, 
Shall owe these cooling fruits and shades to me. 
Do you acquit yourselves, in wisdom's sight, 
From ministering to other hearts delight ? 



212 



J 



ROOK XI.J 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



as 



Why, boys, this is the fruit I gather now ; 
And sweeter never 'blush'd on bended bough. 
Of this, to-morrow, I may take my fill ; 
Indeed, I may enjoy its sweetness till 
I see full many mornings chase the glooms 
From off the marble of your youthful tombs. 
The grey -beard man was right. One of the three, 
Embarking fore'ign lands to see, 
Was drown' d within the very port. 
In quest of dignity at court, 
Another met his country's foe, 
And perish'd by a random blow. 
The third was kill'd by falling from a tree 
Which he himself would graft. The three 
Were mourn'd by him of hoary head, 
Who chisel' d on each monument — 
On doing good intent — 
The things which we have said. 



IX.— THE MICE AND THE OWL. 

Beware of saying, Lend an ear 
To something marvellous or witty. 

To disappoint your friends who hear, 
Is possible, and were a pity. 

But now a clear exception see, 

Which I maintain a prodigy — 
A thing which with the air of fable, 
Is true as is the interest-table. 

A pine was by a woodman fell'd, 

Which ancient, huge, and hollow tree 

An owl had for his palace held — 
A bird the Fates had kept in fee, 
Interpreter to such as we. 
Within the caverns of the pine, 
With other tenants of that mine, 
Were found full many footless mice, 
But well provision'd, fat, and nice. 
The bird had bit off all their feet, 
And fed them there with heaps of wheat. 
That this owl reason' d who can doubt \ 
When to the chase he first went out, 
And home alive the vermin brought, 
Which in his talons he had caught, 
The nimble creatures ran away. 
Next time resolved to make them stay, 
He cropp'd their legs, and found, with pleasure, 
That he could eat them at his leisure ; 
It were impossible to eat 
Them all at once, did health permit. 
His foresight equal to our own, 
In furnishing their food was shown. 
Now, let Cartesians, if they can, 

Pronounce this owl a mere machine. 
Could springs originate the plan 

Of maiming mice when taken lean, 

To fatten for his soup-tureen ? 
If reason did no service there, 
I do not know it anywhere. 

Observe the course of argument : 
These vermin axe no sooner caught than gone : 
They must be used as soon, 'tis evident ; 

But this to all cannot be done. 
And then, for future need, 
I might as well take heed. 
Hence, while their ribs I lard, 

I must from their elopement guard. 



But how ? — A plan complete ! — 
I'll clip them of their feet ! 
Now, find me, in your human schools, 
A better use of logic's tools ! 
Upon your faith, what different art of thought 
Has Aristotle or his followers taught* ? 



EPILOGUE. 

Tis thus, by crystal fount, my muse hath sung, 
Translating into heavenly tongue 
Whatever came within my reach, 

From hosts of beings borrowing nature's speech. 
Interpreter of tribes diverse, 

I've made them actors on my motley stage ; 
For in this boundless universe 

There's none that talketh, simpleton or sage, 

More eloquent at home than in my verse. 

If some should find themselves by me the worse, 

And this my work prove not a model true, 
To that which I at least rough-hew 

Succeeding hands will give the finish due. 
Ye pets of those sweet sisters nine, 
Complete the task that I resign ; 
The lessons give, which doubtless I've omitted, 
With wings by these inventions nicely fitted. 

But you're already more than occupied; 

For while my muse her harmless work hath plied, 
All Europe to our sovereign yields, 
And learns, upon her battle-fields, 
To bow before the noblest plan 
That ever monarch form'd, or man. 
Thence draw those sisters themes sublime, 
With power to conquer Fate and Time. 



BOOK XII. 

L— THE COMPANIONS OF ULYSSES. 

TO MONSEIGNEUR THE DUKE DE BOURGOGNE. 

Dear prince, a special favourite of the skies, 

Pray let my incense from your altars rise. 

With these her gifts if rather late my muse, 

My age and labours must her fault excuse. 

My spirit wanes, while yours beams on the sight 

At every moment with augmented light : 

It does not go — it runs, — it seems to fly; 

And he from whom it draws its traits so high, 

In war a hero burns to do the same. 

No lack of his that, with victorious force, 
His giant strides mark not his glory's course: 

Some god retains : our sovereign I might name ; 

Himself no less than conqueror divine, 

Whom one short month made master of the Rhine. 

It needed then upon the foe to dash ; 

Perhaps, to-day, such generalship were rash. 

But hush, — they say the Loves and Smiles 

Abhor a speech spun out in miles ; 

And of such deities your court 
Is constantly composed, in short. 

* La Fontaine, in a note, asserts that the subject of this 
fable, however marvellous, was a fact which was actually 
observed. His commentators, however, think the observers 
must have been in some measure mistaken, and I agree 
with them. — En. 



213 



34 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



[book XII. 



Not but that other gods, as meet, 
There hold the highest seat : 
For, free and lawless as the rest may seem, 
Good Ssnse and Reason bear a sway supreme. 
Consult these last about the case 
Of certain men of Grecian race, 
Who, most unwise and indiscreet, 
Imbibed such draughts of poison sweet, 
As changed their form, and brutified. 
Ten years the heroes at Ulysses' side 

Had been the sport of wind and tide. 
At last those powers of water 
The sea-worn wanderers bore 
To that enchanted shore 
Where Circe reign'd, Apollo's daughter. 

She press'd upon their thirsty lips 
Delicious drink, but full of bane : 

Their reason, at the first light sips, 
Laid down the sceptre of its reign. 
Then took their forms and features 
The lineaments of various creatures. 
To bears and lions some did pass, 
Or elephants of ponderous mass ; 
While not a few, I ween, 
In smaller forms were seen, — 
In such, for instance, as the mole. 
Of all, the sage Ulysses sole 
Had wit to shun that treacherous bowl. 
With wisdom and heroic mien, 
And fine address, he caused the queen 
To swallow, on her wizard throne, 
A poison somewhat like her own. 
A goddess, she to speak her wishes dared, 
And hence, at once, her love declared. 
Ulysses, truly too judicious 
To lose a moment so propitious, 
Besought that Circe would restore 
His Greeks the shapes that first they wore. 
Replied the nymph, But will they take them back ? 
Go make the proffer to the motley pack. 

Ulysses ran, both glad and sure : 
That poisonous cup, cried he, hath yet its cure ; 
And here I bring what ends your shame and 
pain. 
Will you, dear friends, be men again ? 
Pray speak, for speech is now restored. 
No, said the lion, — and he roar'd, — 
My head is not so void of brains ! 
Renounce shall I my royal gains ? 
I've claws and teeth to tear my foes to bits, 
And, more than that, I'm king. 
Am I such gifts away to fling, 
To be but one of Ithaca's mere cits ? 
In rank and file perhaps I might bear arms. 
In such a change I see no charms. — 
Ulysses passes to the bear : — 
How changed, my friend, from what you were ! 
How sightly once, how ugly now ! 
Humph ! truly how 1 — 
Growl' d Bruin in his way — 
How else than as a bear should be, I pray ? 
Who taught your stilted highness to prefer 
One form to every other, sir ? 
Doth yours possess peculiar powers 
The merits to decide, of ours ? 
With all respect, I shall appeal my case 
To some sweet beauty of the bearish race. 
Please pass it by, if you dislike my face. 
I live content, and free from care ; 
And, well remembering what we were, 



I say it, plain and flat, 
I'll change to no such state as that. 
Next to the wolf the princely Greek 
With flatteriug hope began to speak : — 
Comrade, I blush, I must confess, 
To hear a gentle shepherdess 

Complaining to the echoing rocks 
Of that outrageous appetite 

Which drives you, night by night, 
To prey upon her flocks. 
You had been proud to guard her fold 
In your more honest life of old. 
Pray quit this wolfship, now you can, 
And leave the woods an honest man. 
But is there one ? the wolf replied : 
Such man, I own, I never spied. 
You treat me as a ravenous beast, 
But what are you ? To say the leas*, 
You would yourself have eat the sheep, 
Which, eat by me, the village weep. 
Now, truly, on your faith confess, 
Should I, as man, love flesh the less ? 
Why, man, not seldom, kills his very brother ; 
What, then, are you but wolves to one another ? 
Now, everything with care to scan, 

And rogue with rogue to rate, 
I'd better be a wolf than man, 

And need not change my state. 
Thus all did wise Ulysses try, 
And got from all the same reply, 

As well from great as small. 
Wild liberty was dear to all ; 
To follow lawless appetite 
They counted their supreme delight. 
All banish' d from their thought and care 
The glorious praise of actions fair. 
Where passion led, they thought their course was 

free; 
Self-bound, their chains they could not see. 

Prince, I had wish'd for you a theme to choose, 
Where I might mingle pleasantry with use ; 
And I should meet with your approving voice. 
No doubt, if I could make such choice. 
At last, Ulysses' crew 
Were offer'd to my view. 
And there are like them not a few, 
Who may for penalty await 
Your censure and your hate. 



II.— THE CAT AND THE TWO SPARROWS 

TO MONSEIGNEIR THE DUKE DE BOURGOGNE. 

Contemporary with a sparrow tame 
There lived a cat ; from tenderest age, 
Of both, the basket and the cage 
Had household gods the same. 
The bird's sharp beak full oft provoked the cat, 
Who play'd in turn, but with a gentle pat, 
His wee friend sparing with a merry laugh, 
Not punishing his faults by half. 

In short, he scrupled much the harm, 
Should he with points his ferule arm. 
The sparrow, less discreet than he, 
With dagger beak made very free. 
Sir Cat, a person wise and staid, 
Excused the warmth with which he play'd : 



J, 



214 



BOOK XII.] 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



85 



For 'tis full half of friendship's art 
To take no joke in serious part. 
Familiar since they saw the light, 

Mere habit kept their friendship good ; 
Fair play had never turn'd to fight, 

Till, of their neighbourhood, 
Another sparrow came to greet 
Old Ratto grave and saucy Pete. 
Between the birds a quarrel rose, 

And Ratto took his side. 
A pretty stranger, with such blows 

To beat our friend ! he cried. 
A neighbour's sparrow eating ours ! 
Not so, by all the feline powers. 
And quick the stranger he devours. 

Now, truly, saith Sir Cat, 
I know how sparrows taste by that. 
Exquisite, tender, delicate ! 
This thought soon seal'd the other's fate.- 
But hence what moral can I bring % 
For, lacking that important thing, 
A fable lacks its finishing : 
I seem to see of one some trace, 
But still its shadow mocks my chase. 
Yours, prince, it will not thus abuse : 
For you such sports, and not my muse. 
In wit, she and her sisters eight 
Would fail to match you with a mate. 



III.— THE MISER AND THE MONKEY. 

A man amass'd. The thing, we know, 
Doth often to a frenzy grow. 
No thought had he but of his minted gold — 
Stuff void of worth when unemploy'd, I hold. 
Now, that this treasure might the safer be, 

Our miser's dwelling had the sea 
As guard on every side from every thief. 
With pleasure very small in my belief, 
But very great in his, he there 
Upon his hoard bestow'd his care. 
No respite came of everlasting 
Recounting, calculating, casting ; 
For some mistake would always come 
To mar and spoil the total sum. 
A monkey there, of goodly size, — 
And than his lord, I think, more wise, — 
Some doubloons from the window threw, 
And render'd thus the count untrue. 
The padlock'd room permitted 
Its owner, when he quitted, 
To leave his money on the table. 

One day, bethought this monkey wise 
To make the whole a sacrifice 
To Neptune on his throne unstable. 
I could not well award the prize 
Between the monkey's and the miser's pleasure 

Derived from that devoted treasure. 
With some, Don Bertrand would he honour gain, 
For reasons it were tedious to explain. 
One day, then, left alone, 
That animal, to mischief prone, 
Coin after coin detach'd, 
A gold jacobus snatch'd, 
Or Portuguese doubloon, 
Or silver ducatoon, 
Or noble, of the English rose, 
And flung with all his might 



Those discs, which oft excite 
The strongest wishes mortal ever knows. 
Had he not heard, at last, 
The turning of his master's key, 
The money all had pass'd 
The same short road to sea ; 
And not a single coin but had been pitch'd 
Into the gulf by many a wreck enrich'd. 

Now, God preserve full many a financier 
Whose use of wealth may find its likeness here. 



IV.— THE TWO GOATS. 

Since goats have browsed, by freedom fired, 
To follow fortune they've aspired. 
To pasturage they're wont to roam 
Where men are least disposed to come. 
If any pathless place there be, 

Or cliff, or pendent precipice, 
'Tis there they cut their capers free : 
There's nought can stop these dames, I wis. 

Two goats, thus self-emancipated, — 

The white that on then.' feet they wore 

Look'd back to noble blood of yore, — 

Once quit the lowly meadows, sated, 

And sought the hills, as it would seem : 

In search of luck, by luck they met 
Each other at a mountain stream. 

As bridge a narrow plank was set, 
On which, if truth must be confest, 
Two weasels scarce could go abreast. 
And then the torrent, foaming white, 
As down it tumbled from the height, 
Might well those Amazons affright. 
But maugre such a fearful rapid, 
Both took the bridge, the goats intrepid ! 
I seem to see our Louis Grand 
And Philip IV. advance 
To the Isle of Conference, 
That lies 'twixt Spain and France, 
Each sturdy for his glorious land. 
Thus each of our adventurers goes, 
Till foot to foot, and nose to nose, 
Somewhere about the midst they meet, 
And neither will an inch retreat. 
For why? they both enjoy'd the glory 
Of ancestors in ancient story. 
The one, a goat of peerless rank 
Which, browsing on Sicilian bank, 
The Cyclop gave to Galatsea ; 
The other famous Amalthaea, 
The goat that suckled Jupiter, 
As some historians aver. 
For want of giving back, in troth, 
A common fall involved them both — 
A common accident, no doubt, 
On Fortune's changeful route. 



TO MONSEIGNEUR THE DUKE DE BURGOGNE. 

WHO HAD REQUESTED OF M. DE LA FONTAINE A FABLE 
WHICH SHOULD BE CALLED "THE CAT AND THE MOUSE." 

To please a youthful prince, whom Fame 

A temple in my writings vows, 
What fable answers to the name, 

"The Cat and Mouse?" 



21. 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



[book Xli. 



Shall I in verse the fair present, 

With softest look but hard intent, 

Who serves the hearts her charms entice 

As does the cat its captive mice ? 

Or make my subject Fortune's sport ? 

She treats the friends that make her court, 

And follow closest her advice, 

As treats the cat the silly mice. 

Shall I for theme a king select 

Who sole, of all her favourites, 
Commands the goddess's respect ? 

For whom she from her wheel alights ? 
Who, never stay'd by foes a trice, 
Whene'er they block his way, 
Can with the strongest play 
As doth the cat with mice ? 

Insensibly, white casting thus about, 
Quite anxious for my subject's sake, 
A theme I meet, and, if I don't mistake, 
Shall spoil it, too, by spinning out. 
The prince will treat my muse, for that, 
As mice are treated by the cat. 



-THE OLD CAT AND TEE YOUNG MOUSE. 

A young and inexperienced mouse . 

Had faith to try a veteran cat,— 

Raminagrobis, death to rat, 
And scourge of vermin through the house, — 
Appealing to his clemency 

With reasons sound and fair. 
Pray let me live ; a mouse like me 

It were not much to spare. 
Am I, in such a family, 
A burden ? Would my largest wish 
Our wealthy host impoverish ? 
A grain of wheat will make my meal ; 
A nut will fat me like a seal. 
I'm lean at present ; please to wait, 
And for your heirs reserve my fate. 

The captive mouse thus spake. 
Replied the captor, You mistake ; 
To me shall such a thing be said ? 
Address the deaf ! address the dead ! 
A cat to pardon ! — old one too ! 
Why, such a thing I never knew. 

Thou victim of my paw, 

By well-establish' d law, 

Die as a mousling should, 

And beg the sisterhood 

Who ply the thread and shears, 

To lend thy speech their ears. 

Some other like repast 

My heirs may find, or fast. 
He ceased. The moral 's plain. 
Youth always hopes its ends to gain, 
Believes all spirits like its own : 
Old age is not to mercy prone. 



VI.— THE SICK STAG. 

A stag, where stags abounded, 
Fell sick, and was surrounded 
Forthwith by comrades kind, 
All pressing to assist, 



Or see, their friend, at least, 
And ease his anxious mind — 

An irksome multitude. 
Ah, sirs ! the sick was fain to cry, 
Pray leave me here to die, 

As others do, in solitude. 
Pray, let your kind attentions cease, 
Till death my spirit shall release. 
But comforters are not so sent : 
On duty sad full long intent, 
When Heaven pleased, they went, 
But not without a friendly glass ; 
That is to say, they cropp'd the grass 
And leaves which in that quarter grew, 
From which the sick his pittance drew. 
By kindness thus compell'd to fast, 
He died for want of food at last. 
The men take off no txifling dole 
Who heal the body or the soul. 
Alas the times ! do what we will, 
They have their payment, cure or kill. 



VII.— THE BAT, THE BUSH, AND THE DUCK 

A bush, duck, and bat, having found that in trade 
Confined to their country small profits were made, 
Into partnership enter'd to traffic abroad, [fraud. 
Then.' purse, held in common, well guarded from 
Their factors and agents, these trading allies 
Employ'd where they needed, as cautious as wise : 
Their journals and ledgers, exact and discreet, 
Recorded by items expense and receipt. 
All throve, till an argosy, on its way home, 
With a cargo worth more than their capital sum, 
In attempting to pass through a dangerous strait, 
Went down with its passengers, sailors, and freight, 
To enrich those enormous and miserly stores, 
From Tai*tarus distant but very few doors. 
Regret was a thing which the firm could but feel ; 
Regret was the thing they were slow to reveal ; 
For the least of a merchant well knows that the weal 
Of his credit requires him his loss to conceal. 
But that which our trio unluckily suffer'd 
Allow'd no repair, and of course was discover'd. 
No money nor credit, 'twas plain to be seen 
Their heads were now threaten 'd with bonnets of 

green * ; 
And, the facts of the case being everywhere known, 
No mortal would open his purse with a loan. 
Debts, bailiffs, and lawsuits, and creditors gruff, 
At the crack of day knocking, 
(Importunity shocking !) 

Our trio kept busy enough. 
The bush, ever ready and. on the alert, 
Now caught all the people it could by the skirt : — 
Pray, sir, be so good as to tell, if you please, 
If you know whereabout the old villanous seas 
Have hid all our goods which they stole t'other night. 
The diver, to seek them, went down out of sight. 
The bat didn't venture abroad in the day, 
And thus of the bailiffs kept out of the way. 

Full many insolvents, not bats, to hide so, 
Nor bushes, nor divers, I happen to know, 
But even grand seigniors, quite free from all cares, 
By virtue of brass, and of private backstairs. 

* Such as insolvent debtors were anciently required to 
wear, in France, after making cession of their effects, in 
order to escape imprisonment.— Ed. 



216 



BOOK XII.'] 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



m 



VIII.— THE QUARREL OF THE DOGS AND CATS, 
AND THAT OF THE CATS AND MICE. 

Enthroned by an eternal law, 
Hath discord reign 'd throughout the universe, 
In proof, I might from this our planet draw 
A thousand instances diverse. 
Within the circle of our view, 
This queen hath subjects not a few. 
Beginning with the elements, 

It is astonishing to see 
How they have stood, to all intents, 

As wrestlers from eternity. 
Besides these four great potentates, 

Old stubborn earth, fire, flood, and air, 
How many other smaller states 
Are waging everlasting war ! 
In mansion deck'd with frieze and column, 

Dwelt dogs and cats in multitudes ; 
Decrees, promulged in maimer solemn, 
Had pacified their ancient feuds. 
Their lord had so arranged their meals and 
labours, 
And threaten'd quarrels with the whip, 
That, living in sweet cousinship, 
They edified their wondering neighbours. 
At last, some dainty plate to lick, 
Or profitable bone to pick, 
Bestow'd by some partiality, 
Broke up the smooth equality. 
The side neglected were indignant 
At such a slight malignant. 
Some writers make the whole dispute begin 
With favours to a bitch while lying in. 
Whate'er the cause, the altercation 
Soon grew a perfect conflagration. 
In hall and kitchen, dog and eat 

Took sides with zeal for this or that. 
New rules upon the cat side falling 
Produced tremendous caterwauling. 
Their advocate, against such rules as -these, 
Advised recurrence to the old decrees. 
They search'd in vain, for, hidden in a nook, 
The thievish mice had eaten up the book. 
Another quarrel, in a trice, 
Made many sufferers with the mice ; 
For many a veteran whisker'd-face, 
With craft and cunning richly stored, 

And grudges old against the race, 
Now watch'd to put them to the sword ; 
Nor mourn'd for this that mansion's lord. 

Resuming our discourse, we see 
No creature from opponents free. 
'Tis nature's law for earth and sky ; 
'Twere vain to ask the reason why ; 
God's works are good, — I cannot doubt it, — 
And that is all I know about it. 

I know, however, that the cause 
Which hath our human quarrels brought, 

Three quarters of the time, is nought 

That will be, is, or ever was. 
Ye veterans, in state and church, 

At threescore years, indeed, 

It seems there still is need 
To give you lessons with the birch ! 



IX.— THE WOLF AND THE FOX. 

Whence comes it that there liveth not 
A man contented with his lot ? 
Here 's one who would a soldier be, 
Whom soldiers all Avith envy see. 

A fox to be a wolf once sigh'd. 
With disappointments mortified, 
Who knows but that, his wolfship cheap, 
The wolf himself would be a sheep ? 

I marvel that a prince is able, 

At eight, to put the thing in fable ; 

While I, beneath my seventy snows, 

Forge out, with toil and time, 

The same in labour'd rhyme, 

Less striking than his prose. 

The traits which in his work we meet, 
A poet, it must be confess'd, 
Could not have half so well express'd' : 

He bears the palm as more complete. 

'Tis mine to sing it to the pipe ; 
But I expect that when the sands 

Of Time have made my hero ripe, 
He'll put a trumpet in my hands. 

My mind but little doth aspire 
To prophecy ; but yet it reads 
On high, that soon his glorious deeds 
Full many Homers will require — 
Of which this age produces few. 
But, bidding mysteries adieu, 
I try my powers upon this fable new. 

Dear wolf, complain'd a hungry fox, 
A lean chick's meat, or veteran cock's, 
Is all I get by toil or trick : 
Of such a living 1 am sick. 
With far less risk, you've better cheer ; 
A house you need not venture near, 
But I must do it, spite of fear. 
Pray, make me master of your trade, 
And let me by that means be made 
The first of all my race that took 
Fat mutton to his larder's hook : 
Your kindness shall not be repented. 
The wolf quite readily consented. 
I have a brother, lately dead ; 
Go fit his skin to yours, he said. 
'Twas done ; and then the wolf proceeded : 
Now mark you well what must be done. 
The dogs that guard the flock to shun. 
The fox the lessons strictly heeded. 
At first, he boggled in his dress ; 
But awkwardness grew less and less, 
Till perseverance gave success. 
His education scarce complete, 
A flock, his scholarship to greet, 

Came rambling out that way. 
The new-made wolf his work began, 
Amidst the heedless nibblers ran, 

And spread a sore dismay. 
Such terror did Patroclus spread, 

When on the Trojan camp and town, 
Clad in Achilles' armour dread, 

He valiantly came down. 



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[BOOK XII. 



The matrons, maids, and aged men 
All hurried to the temples then. — 
The bleating host now surely thought 
that fifty wolves were on the spot : 

Dog, shepherd, sheep, all homeward fled, 
And left a single sheep in pawn, 
Which Renard seized when they were gone. 

But, ere upon his prize he fed, 
There crow'd a cock near by, and down 
The scholar threw his prey and gown, 
That he might run that way the faster — 
Forgetting lessons, prize and master. 
How useless is the art of seeming ! 

Reality, in every station, 
Is through its cloak at all times gleaming, 
And bursting out on fit occasion. 

Young prince, to your unrivall'd wit 
Sly muse gives credit, as is fit, 
For what she here hath labour'd with — 
The subject, characters, and pith. 



X.— THE LOBSTER AND HER DAUGHTER. 



The wise, sometimes, as lobsters do, 
To gain their ends back foremost go. 
It is the rower's art ; and those 
Commanders who mislead their foes, 
Do often seem to aim their sight 
Just where they don't intend to smite. 
My theme, so low, may yet apply 
To one whose fame is very high, 

Who finds it not the hardest matter 
A hundred-headed league to scatter. 
What he will do, what leave undone, 
Are secrets with unbroken seals, 
Till victory the truth reveals. 
Whatever he would have unknown 
Is sought in vain. Decrees of Fate 
Forbid to check, at first, the course 
Which sweeps at last with torrent force. 
One Jove, as ancient fables state, 
Exceeds a hundred gods in weight. 
So Fate and Louis would seem able 
The universe to draw, 
Bound captive to their law. — 
But come we to our fable. 
A mother lobster did her daughter chide : 
For shame, my daughter ! can't you go ahead \ 
And how go you yourself? the child replied : 
Can I be but by your example led ? 

Head foremost should I, singularly, wend. 
While all my race pursue the other end ? 
She spoke with sense : for better or for worse, 
Example has a universal force. 
To some it opens wisdom's door, 
But leads to folly many more. 
Yet, as for backing to one's aim, 
When properly pursued 
The art is doubtless good, 
At least in grim Bellona's game. 



XI.— THE EAGLE AND THE MAGPIE. 

The eagle, through the air a queen, 
And one far different, I ween, 
In temper, language, thought, and mien, — 
The magpie, — once a prairie cross'd. 



The by-path where they met was drear, 
And Madge gave up herself for lost ; 

But having dined on ample cheer, 

The eagle bade her, Never fear ; 
You're welcome to my company ; 
For if the king of gods can be 

Full oft in need of recreation, — 
Who rules the world, — right well may I, 

Who serve him in that high relation : 
Amuse me, then, before you fly. 
Our cackler, pleased, at quickest rate 
Of this and that began to prate. 
Not he of whom old Flaccus writes, 
The most impertinent of wights, 

Or any babbler, for that matter, 

Could more incontinently chatter. 
At last she offer'd to make known — 
A better spy had never flown — 
All things, whatever she might see. 
In travelling from tree to tree. 
But, with her offer little pleased — 
Nay, gathering wrath at being teased, — 
For such a purpose never rove, 
Replied th' impatient bird of Jove. 
Adieu, my cackling friend, adieu ; 
My court is not the place for you : 
Heaven keep it free from such a bore ! 
Madge flapp'd her wings, and said no more. 

'Tis far less easy than it seems 
An entrance to the great to gain. 

The honour oft hath cost extremes 
Of mortal pain. 

The craft of spies, the tattling art, 

And looks more gracious than the heart, 
Are odious there ; 

But still, if one would meet success, 

Of different parishes the dress 
He, like the pie, must wear. 



NIL— THE KING, THE KITE, AND THE 
FALCONER. 

TO HIS AUGUST HIGHNESS, MONSEIGNEUR THE PRINCS 
DE CONTI. 

The gods, for that themselves are good, 

The like in mortal monarchs would. 

The prime of royal rights is grace ; 

To this e'en sweet revenge gives place. 

So thinks your highness, while your wrath 

Its cradle for its coffin hath. 

Achilles no such conquest knew — 

In this a hero less than you. 

That name indeed belongs to none, 

Save those who have, beneath the sun, 

Their hundred generous actions done. 

The golden age produced such powers, 

But truly few this age of ours. 

The men who now the topmost sit, 

Are thank 'd for crimes which they omit. 
For you, unharm'd by such examples, 
A thousand noble deeds are winning temples, 

Wherein Apollo, by the altar-fire, 

Shall strike your name upon his golden lyre. 

The gods await you in their azure dome ; 

One age must serve for this your lower home. 

One age entire with you would Hymen dwell : 
that his sweetest spell 



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THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



8« 



For you a destiny may bind 

By such a period scarce confined ! 
The princess and yourself no less deserve. 

Her charms as witnesses shall serve ; 

As witnesses, those talents high 

Pour'd on you by the lavish sky, 

Outshining all pretence of peers 
Throughout your youthful yeai's. 

A Boui'bon seasons grace with wit : 
To that which gains esteem in mixture fit, 

He adds a portion from above 
Wherewith to waken love. 
To paint your joy — my task is less sublime : 

I therefore turn aside to rhyme 

What did a certain bird of prey. 

A kite, possessor of a nest antique, 
Was caught alive one day. 
It was the captor's freak 
That this so rare a bird 
Should on his sovereign be confex*r'd. 
The kite, presented by the man of chase, 
With due respect, before the monarch's face, 
If our account is true, 
Immediately flew 
And perch'd upon the royal nose. 
What ! on the nose of majesty? 
Ay, on the consecrated nose did he. 
Had not the king his sceptre and his crown ? 
Why, if he had, or had not, 'twere all one : 
The royal nose, as if it graced a clown, 

Was seized. The things by courtiers done, 
And said, and shriek'd, 'twere hopeless to relate. 
The king in silence sate ; 
An outcry for a sovereign king, 
Were quite an unbecoming thing. 
The bird retain 'd the post where he had fasten'd ; 
No cries nor efforts his departure hasten'd. 
His master call'd, as in an agony of pain, 
Presented lure and fist, but all in vain. 
It seem'd as if the cursed bird, 
With instinct most absurd, 
In spite of all the noise and blows, 
Would roost upon that sacred nose ! 
The urging off of courtiers, pages, master, 
But roused his will to cling the faster. 
At last he quit, as thus the monarch spoke : 
Give egress hence, imprimis, to this kite, 
And, next, to him who aim'd at our delight. 
From each his office we revoke. 
The one as kite we now discharge ; 
The other, as a forester at large. 
As in our station it is fit, 
We do all punishment remit. 
The court admired. The courtiers praised the 

deed 
In which themselves did but so ill succeed. — 
Few kings had taken such a course. 
The fowler might have fared far worse ; 
His only crime, as of his kite, 
Consisted in his want of light 
About the danger there might be 
In coming near to royalty. 
Forsooth, their scope had wholly been 
Within the woods. Was that a sin 1 — 
By Pilpay this remarkable affair 

Is placed beside the Ganges' flood. 
No human creature ventures, there, 
To shed of animals the blood : 
r Ihe deed not even royalty would dare. 



Know we, they say, — both lord and liege, — 
This bird saw not'the Trojan siege % 
Perhaps a hero's part he bore, 
And there the highest helmet wore. 
What once he was, he yet may be. 
Taught by Pythagoras are we, 
That we our forms with animals exchange ; 
We're kites or pigeons for a while, 
Then biped plodders on the soil ; 
And then 
As volatile, again 
The liquid air we range. — 
Now since two versions of this tale exist, 
I'll give the other if you list. 
A certain falconer had caught 
A kite, and for his sovereign thought 
The bird a present rich and rare. 

It may be once a century 
Such game is taken from the air ; 

For 'tis the pink of falconry. 
The captor pierced the courtier crowd, 

With zeal and sweat, as if for life ; 
Of such a princely present proud, 

His hopes of fortune sprang full rife ; 
When, slap, the savage made him feel 
His talons newly arm'd with steel, 
By perching on his nasal member, 
As if it had been senseless timber. 
Outshriek'd the wight ; but peals of laughter, 
Which threaten' d cieling, roof, and rafter, 
From courtier, page, and monarch broke : 
Who had not laugh'd at such a joke % 
From me, so prone am I to such a sin, 
An empire had not held me in. 
I dare not say, 'that, had the pope been there, 
He would have join'd the laugh sonorous ; 
But sad the king, I hold, who should not dare 

To lead for such a cause in such a chorus. 
The gods are laughers. Spite of ebon brows, 
Jove joins the laugh which he allows. 
As history saith, the thunderer's laugh went up 
When limping Vulcan served the nectar cup. 
Whether or not immortals here are wise, 
Good sense, I think, in my digression lies. 
For, since the moral 's what we have in view, 
What could the falconer's fate have taught us new ? 
Who does not notice, in the course of things, 
More foolish falconers than indulgent kings ? 



XIII.— THE FOX, THE FLIES, AND THE 
HEDGEHOG. 

A fox, old, subtle, vigilant, and sly, — 
By hunters wounded, fallen in the mud, — 
Attracted, by the traces of his blood, 
That buzzing parasite, the fly. 
He blamed the gods, and wonder'd why 
The Fates so cruelly should wish 
To feast the fly on such a costly dish. 
W T hat ! light on me ! make me its food ! 
Me, me, the nimblest of the wood ! 
How long has fox-meat been so good ? 
What serves my tail' % Is it a useless weight ? 
Go, — Heaven confound thee, greedy reprobate !- 
And suck thy fill from some more vulgar veins ! 
A hedgehog, witnessing his pains, 
(This fretful personage 
Here graces first my page,) 



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[book XII 



Desired to set him free 

From such cupidity. 

My neighbour fox, said he, 

My quills these rascals shall empale, 

And ease thy torments without fail. 

Not for the world, my friend ! the fox replied. 

Pray let them finish their repast. 
These flies are full. Should they he set aside, 

New hungrier swarms would finish me at last. 
Consumers are too common here below, 
In court and camp, in church and state, we know. 
Old Aristotle's penetration 
Remark'd our fable's application ; 
It might more clearly in our nation. 
The fuller certain men are fed, 
The less the public will be bled. 



XIV.— LOVE AND FOLLY. 

Love bears a world of mystery — 

His arrows, quiver, torch, and infancy : 

'Tis not a trifling work to sound 

A sea of science so profound : 

And, hence, t' explain it all to-day 

Is not my aim, but, in my simple way, 
To show how that blind archer lad 

(And he a god !) came by the loss of sight, 
And eke what consequence the evil had, 

Or good, perhaps, if named aright— 
A point I leave the lover to decide, 
As fittest judge, who hath the matter tried. 

Together, on a certain day, 

Said Love and Folly were at play : 

The former yet enjoy'd his eyes. 

Dispute arose. Love thought it wise 

Before the council of the gods to go, 
Where both of them by birth held stations ', 
But Folly, in her lack of patience, 

Dealt on his forehead such a blow 
As seal'd his orbs to all the light of heaven. 
Now Venus claim'd that vengeance should be given. 
And by what force of tears yourselves may guess 
The woman and the mother sought redress. 
The gods were deafen' d with her cries — 
Jove, Nemesis, the stern assize 
Of Orcus, — all the gods, in short, 
From whom she might the boon extort. 
The enormous wrong she well portray 'd — 
Her son a wretched groper made, 
An ugly staff his steps to aid ! 
For such a crime, it would appear, 
No punishment could be severe : 
The damage, too, must be repair'd. 

The case maturely weigh'd and east, 
The public weal with private squared : 

Poor Folly was condemn 'd at last, 
By judgment of the court above, 
To serve for aye as guide to Love. 



XV.— THE RAVEN, THE GAZELLE, THE TOR- 
TOISE, AND THE RAT. 

TO MADAME DE LA SABLIERE. 

A temple 1 reserved you in my rhyme : 
It might not be completed but with time. 
Already its endurance I had grounded 
Upon this charming art, divinely founded ; 



And on the name of that divinity 
For whom its adoration was to be 
These words I should have written o'er its gate — 
To Iris is this palace consecrate; 

Not her who served the queen divine ; 
For Juno's self, and he who crown'd her bliss. 

Had thought it for their dignity, I wis, 
To bear the messages of mine. 
Within the dome the apotheosis 
Should greet th' enraptured sight — 

All heaven, in pomp and order meet, 

Conducting Iris to her seat 
Beneath a canopy of light ! 
The walls would amply serve to paint her life, — ■ 
A matter sweet, indeed, but little rile 
In those events, which, order' d by the Fates, 
Cause birth, or change, or overthrow of states. 
The innermost should hold her image, — 

Her features, smiles, attractions there, — 

Her art of pleasing without care, — 
Her loveliness, that's sure of homage. 
Some mortals, kneeling at her feet, — 
Earth's noblest heroes,— should be seen ; 
Ay, demigods, and even gods, I ween : 

(The worshipp'd of the world thinks meet, 
Sometimes her altar to perfume.) 

Her eyes, so far as that might be, 
Her soul's rich jewel should allume ; 

Alas ! but how imperfectly ! 
For could a heart that throb'b'd to bless 
Its friends with boundless tenderness, — 
Or could that heaven-descended mind 
Which, in its matchless beauty, join'd 
The strength of man with woman's grace, — 
Be given to sculptor to express ? 
Iris, who canst charm the soul — 
Nay, bind it with supreme control, — 

Whom as myself I can but love,— 
(Nay, not that word : as I'm a man, 
Your court has placed it under ban, 

And we'll dismiss it,) pray approve 
My filling up this hasty plan ! 
This sketch has hare received a place, 
A simple anecdote to grace, 
Where friendship shows so sweet a face, 
That in its features you may find 
Somewhat accordant to your mind. 
Not that the tale may kings beseem ; 
But he Avho winneth your esteem 
Is not a monarch placed above 
The need and influence of love, 
But simple mortal, void of crown, 
That would for friends his life lay down-- 
Than which I know no friendlier act. 
Four animals, in league compact, 
Are now to give our noble race 
A useful lesson in the case, 
Bat, raven, tortoise, and gazelle, 
Once into firmest friendship fell. 
'Twas in a home unknown to man 
That they their happiness began. 

But safe from man there's no retreat : 
Pierce you the loneliest wood, 
Or dive beneath the deepest flood, 
Or mount you where the eagles brood, — 

His secret ambuscade you meet. 
The light gazelle, in haimiless play, 
Amused herself abroad one day, 
When, by mischance, her track was found . 
And follow'd by the baying hound — 



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91 



That barbarous tool of barbarous man— . 
From which far, far away she ran. 
At meal-time to the others 
The rat observed, — My brothers, 
How happens it that we 
Are met to-day but three ? 
Is Miss Gazelle so little steady ? 
Hath she forgotten us already ? 
Out cried the tortoise at the word, — 
Were I, as Raven is, a bird, 

I'd fly this instant from my seat, 
And learn what accident, and where, 
Hath kept away our sister fair, — 

Our sister of the flying feet ; 
For of her heart, dear rat, 
It were a shame to doubt of that. 

The raven flew ; 
He spied afar, — the face he knew, — 
The poor gazelle entangled in a snare, 
In anguish vainly floundering there. 
Straight back he turn'd, and gave the alarm ; 
For to have ask'd the sufferer now, 
The why and wherefore, when and how, 
She had incurr'd so great a harm, — 
And lose in vain debate 
The turning-point of fate, 
As would the master of a school, — 
He was by no means such a fool. 
On tidings of so sad a pith, 
The three their council held forthwith. 
By two it was the vote 
To hasten to the spot 
Where lay the poor gazelle. 
Our friend here in his shell, 
I think, will do as well 
To guard the house, the raven said ; 
For, with his creeping pace, 
When would he reach the place I 
Not till the deer were dead. 
Eschewing more debate, 
They flew to aid their mate, 
That luckless mountain roe. 
The tortoise, too, resolved to go. 
Behold him plodding on behind, 
And plainly cursing in his mind, 
The fate that left his legs to lack, 
And glued his dwelling to his back. 
The snare was cut by Rongemail, 
(For so the rat they rightly hail.) 
Conceive their joy yourself you may. 
Just then the hunter came that way, 
And, Who hath filch'd my prey ? 
Cried he, upon the spot 
Where now his prey was not. — 
A hole hid Rongemail ; 
A tree the bird as well ; 
The woods, the free gazelle. 
The hunter, well nigh mad, 
To find no inkling could be had, 
Espied the tortoise in his path, 
And straightway check'd his wrath. 

Why let my courage flag? 
Because my snare has chanced to miss ? 
I'll have a supper out of this. 

He said, and put it in his bag. 
And it had paid the forfeit so, 
Had not the raver, told the roe, 
Who from her covert came, 
Pretending to be lame. 
The man, right eager to pursue, 



Aside his wallet threw, 
Which Rongemail took care 
To serve as he had done the snare ; 

Thus putting to an end 
The hunter's supper on his friend. 
'Tis thus sage Pilpay's tale I follow. 
Were I the ward of golden-hair'd Apollo, 
It were, by favour of that god, easy — 
And surely for your sake — 
As long a tale to make 
As is the Iliad or Odyssey. 
Grey Rongemail the hero's part should play, 
Though each would be as needful in his way. 
He of the mansion portable awoke 
Sir Raven by the words he spoke, 
To act the spy, and then the swift express. 
The light gazelle alone had had th' address 
The hunter to engage, and furnish time 
For Rongemail to do his deed sublime. 
Thus each his part perform'd. Which wins the prize? 
The heart, so far as in my judgment lies. 



XVI.— THE WOODS AND THE WOODMAN. 

A certain wood-chopper lost or broke 
From his axe's eye a bit of oak. 
The forest must needs be somewhat spared 
While such a loss was being repair' d. 
Came the man at last, and humbly prayM 
That the woods would kindly lend to him — 
A moderate loan — a single limb, 
Whereof might another helve be made, 
And his axe should elsewhere drive its trade. 
0, the oaks and firs that then might stand, 
A pride and a joy throughout the land, 
For their ancientness and glorious charms ! 
The innocent Forest lent him anus ; 
But bitter indeed was her regret; 
For the wretch, his axe new-helved and whet, 
Did nought but his benefactress spoil 
Of the finest trees that graced her soil ; 
And ceaselessly was she made to groan, 
Doing penance for that fatal loan. 

Behold the world-stage and its actors, 
Where benefits hurt benefactors ! — 
A weary theme, and full of pain ; 
For where 's the shade so cool and sweet, 
Protecting strangers from the heat, 
But might of such a wrong complain ? 
Alas ! I vex myself in. vain : 
Ingratitude, do what I will, 
Is sure to be the fashion still 



XVII.— THE FOX, THE WOLF, ASD THE HORSE. 

A fox, though young, by no means raw, 
Had seen a horse — the first he ever saw : 
Ho ! neighbour wolf, said he to one quite green, 
A creature in our meadow I have seen, — 

Sleek, grand ! I seem to see him yet, — 

The finest beast I ever met. 

Is he a stouter one than we ? 

The wolf demanded, eagerly. 

Some picture of him let me see. 
If I could paint, said fox, I should delight 
T' anticipate your pleasure at the sight ; 



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[book XII. 



But come ; who knows ? perhaps it is a prey 
By fortune offer'd in our way. 
They went. The horse, turn'd loose to graze, 
Not liking much their looks or ways, 
Was just about to gallop off. 
Sir, said the fox, your humble servants, we 
Make bold to ask you what your name may be. 

The horse, an animal with brains enough, 
Replied, Sirs, you yourselves may read my name ; 
My shoer round my heel hath writ the same. 
The fox excused himself for want of knowledge : 
Me, sir, my parents did not educate, — 
So poor, a hole was their entire estate. 
My friend, the wolf, however, taught at college, 
Could read it were it even Greek. 

The wolf, to flattery weak, 
Approach'd, to verify the boast ; 
For which, four teeth he lost. 
The high-raised hoof came down with such a blow. 
As laid him bleeding on the ground full low. 
My brother, said the fox, this shows how just 
What once was taught me by a fox of wit, — 
Which on thy jaws this animal hath writ, — 
: ' All unknown things the wise mistrust." 



XYIIL— THE FOX AND THE TURKEYS. 

Against a robber fox, a tree 

Some turkeys served as citadel. 
That villain, much provoked to see 
Each standing there as sentinel, 
Cried out, Such witless birds 

At me stretch out their necks, and gobble ! 

No, by the powers ! I'll give them trouble. 
He verified his words. 
The moon, that shined full on the oak, 
Seem'd then to help the turkey folk. 
But fox, in arts of siege well versed, 
Ransack'd his bag of tricks accursed. 
He feign'd himself about to climb ; 
Walk'd on his hinder legs sublime ; 

Then death most aptly counterfeited, 

And seem'd anon resuscitated. 
A practiser of wizard arts 
Could not have fill'd so many parts. 
In moonlight he contrived to raise 
His tail, and make it seem a blaze : 
And countless other tricks like that. 
Meanwhile, no turkey slept or sat. 
Their constant vigilance at length, 
As hoped the fox, wore out their strength. 
Bewilder' d by the rigs he run, 
They lost their balance one by one. 
As Renard slew, he laid aside, 
Till nearly half of them had died ; 
Then proudly to his larder bore, 
And laid them up, an ample store. 
A foe, by being over-heeded, 
Has often in his plan succeeded. 



XIX.— THE APE. 

There is an ape in Paris, 
To which was given a wife : 

Like many a one that marries, 
This ape, in brutal strife, 
Soon beat her out of life. 



Their infant cries, — perhaps not fed, — 
But cries, I ween, in vain ; 

The father laughs : his wife is dead, 
And he has other loves again, 

Which he will also beat, I think, — 

Return'd from tavern drown'd in drink. 
For aught that's good, you need not look 

Among the imitative tribe ; 
A monkey be it, or what makes a book — 

The worse, I deem — the aping scribe. 



XX.— THE SCYTHIAN PHILOSOPHER. 

A Scythiax philosopher austere, 
Resolved his rigid life somewhat to cheer, 
Perform'd the tour of Greece, saw many things, 
But, best, a sage, — one such as Virgil sings, — 
A simple, rustic man, that equal'd kings ; 
From whom the gods would hardly bear the palm, 

Like them unawed, content, and calm. 
His fortune was a little nook of land ; 
And there the Scythian found him, hook in hand, j 
His fruit-trees pruning. Here he cropp'd 
A barren branch, there slash'd and lopp'd, 

Correcting NaUrre everywhere, 

Who paid with usury his care. 

Pray, why this wasteful havoc, sir ? — 

So spoke the wondering traveller ; 

Can it, I ask, in reason's name, 

Be wise these harmless trees to maim ? 

Fling down that instrument of crime, 

And leave them to the scythe of Time. 

Full soon, unhasten'd, they will go 

To deck the banks of streams below. 

Replied the tranquil gardener, 

I humbly crave your pardon, sir ; 

Excess is all my hook removes, 

By which the rest more fruitful proves. 
The philosophic traveller, — 

Once more within his country cold, — 

Himself of pruning-hook laid hold, 

And made a use most free and bold ; 
Prescribed to friends, and counsel'd neighbours 
To imitate his pruning labours. 

The finest limbs he did not spare, 
But pruned his orchard past all reason, 
Regarding neither time nor season, 

Nor taking of the moon a care. 
All wither'd, droop'd, and died. 
This Scythian I set beside 

The indiscriminating Stoic. 

The latter, with a blade heroic, 

Retrenches, from his spirit sad, 

Desires and passions, good and bad, 

Not sparing e'en a harmless wish. 

Against a tribe so Vandalish 

With earnestness I here protest. 
They maim our hearts, they stupefy 

Their strongest springs, if not their best ; 
They make us cease to live before we die. 



XXL— THE ELEPHANT AND THE APE OF 

JUPITER. 
'Twixt elephant and beast of horned nose 
About precedence a dispute arose, 
Which they determined to decide by blows. 
The day was fix'd, when came a messenger 



■22. 



HOOK XII.] 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



93 



To say the ape of Jupiter 
Was swiftly earthward seen to bear 
His bright caduceus through the air. 
This monkey, named in history Gill, 
The elephant at once believed 
A high commission had received 
To witness, by his sovereign's will, 
The aforesaid battle fought. 
Uplifted by the glorious thought, 
The beast was prompt on Monsieur Gill to wait, 
But found him slow, in usual forms of state, 
His high credentials to present. 
The ape, however, ere he went, 
Bestow'd a passing salutation. 
His excellency would have heard 
The subject matter of legation : 
But not a word ! 
His fight, so far from stirring heaven, — 
The news was not received there, even ! 
What difference sees the impartial sin- 
Between an elephant and fly ? 
Our monarch, doting on his object, 
Was forced himself to break the subject. 

My cousin Jupiter, said he, 
Will shortly, from his throne supreme, 

A most important combat see, 
For ail his court a thrilling theme. 
What combat? said the ape, with serious face. 
Ia't possible you should not know the case \ — 
The elephant exclaim'd — not know, dear sir, 
That Lord Rhinoceros disputes 
With me precedence of the brutes ? 
That Elephantis is at war 
With savage hosts of Rhiiiocer ? 
You know these realms, not void of fame I 
I joy to learn them now by name, 
Return'd Sir Gill, for, first or last, 
No lisp of them has ever pass'd 
Throughout our dome so blue and vast. 
Abash'd, the elephant replied, 

What came you, then, to do ? — 
Between two emmets to divide 
A spire of grass in two. 
We take of all a care ; 
And, as to your affair, 
Befoi'e the gods, who view with equal eyes 
The small and great, it hath not chanced to rise. 



XXII.— THE FOOL AND THE SAGE. 

A fool pursued, with club and stone, 
A sage, who said, My friend, well done ! 
Receive this guinea for your pains ; 
They well deserve far higher gains. 
The workman 's worthy of his hire, 
'Tis said. There comes a wealthy squire, 
Who hath wherewith thy works to pay ; 
To him direct thy gifts, and they 
Shall gain their proper recompense. 

Urged by the hope of gain, 

Upon the wealthy citizen 
The fool repeated the offence. 
His pay this time was not in gold. 
Upon the witless man 

A score of ready footmen ran, 

And on his back, in full, his wages told. 

In courts, such fools afflict the wise ; 



They raise the laugh at your expense. 

To check their babble, were it sense 
Their folly meetly to chastise ? 
Perhaps 'twill take a stronger man. 
Then make them worry one who can. 



XXIII.— THE ENGLISH FOX. 

TO MADAM HARVEY. 

Sound reason and a tender heart 
With thee are friends that never part. 
A hundred traits might swell the roll ; — 
Suffice to name thy nobleness of soul ; 
Thy power to guide both men and things ; 

Thy temper open, bland and free, 

A gift that draweth friends to thee, 
To which thy firm affection clings, 
Unmarr'd by age or change of clime, 
Or tempests of this stormy time ; — 
All which deserve, in highest lyric, 
A rich and lofty panegyric : 
But no such thing wouldst thou desire, 
Whom pomp displeases, praises tire. 
Hence mine is simple, short, and plain ; 

Yet, madam, I would fain 

Tack on a word or two 

Of homage to your country due, — 

A country well beloved by you. 

With mind to match the outward case, 

The English are a thinking race. 

They pierce all subjects through and through 

Well arm'd with facts, they hew their way, 

And give to science boundless sway. 

Quite free from flattery, I say, 

Your countrymen, for penetration, 

Must bear the palm from every nation ; 

For e'en the dogs they breed excel 

Our own in nicety of smell. 

Your foxes, too, are cunninger, 

As readily we may infer 

From one that practised, 'tis believed, 

A stratagem the best conceived. 

The wretch, once, in the utmost strait 

By dogs of nose so delicate, 

Approach'd a gallows, where, 

A lesson to like passengers, 

Or clothed in feathers or in furs, 

Some badgers, owls, and foxes, pendent were. 

Their comrade, in his pressing need, 

Arranged himself among the dead. 

I seem to see old Hannibal 

Outwit some Roman general, 

And sit securely in his tent, 

The legions on some other scent. 

But certain dogs, kept back 

To tell the errors of the pack, 

Arriving where the traitor hung, 

A fault in fullest chorus sung. 

Though by their bark the welkin rung, 

Their master made them hold the tongue. 

Suspecting not a trick so odd, 

Said he, the rogue 's beneath the sod. 

My dogs, that never saw such jokes, 

Won't bark beyond these honest folks. 

The rogue would try the trick again. 
He did so to his cost and pain. 
Again with dogs the welkin rings ; 
Again our fox from gallows swings ; 



223 



94 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



[book XII. 



But though he hangs with greater faith, 
This time, he does it to his death. 

So uniformly is it true, 

A stratagem is best when new. 
The hunter, had himself been hunted, 
So apt a trick had not invented ; 
Not that his wit had been deficient ; — 

With that, it cannot be denied, 
Your English folks are well-provision'd ; — 
But wanting love of life sufficient, 

Full many an Englishman has died. 

One word to you, and I must quit 

My much -inviting subject : 

A long eulogium is a project 
For which my lyre is all unfit. 
The song or verse is truly rare, 
Which can its meed of incense bear, 
And yet amuse the general ear, 
Or wing its way to lands afar. 
Your prince once told you, I have heard, 

(An able judge, as rumour says.) 
That he one dash of love preferr'd 

To all a sheet could hold of praise. 
Accept — 'tis all I crave — the offering 
Which here my muse has dared to bring — 

Her last, perhaps, of earthly acts ; 

She blushes at its sad defects. 

Still, by your favour of my rhyme, 
Might not the self-same homage please, the while, 

The dame who fills your northern clime 

With winged emigrants sublime 
From Cytherea's isle ? 

By this, you understand, I mean 

Love's guardian goddess, Mazarin. 



XXW.-THE SUN AND THE FROGS. 

Long from the monarch of the stars 

The daughters of the mud received 
Support and aid ; nor dearth nor wars, 

Meanwhile, their teeming nation grieved. 
They spread their empire far and wide 
Through every marsh, by every tide. 
The queens of swamps — I mean no more 

Than simply frogs (great names are cheap)- 
Caball'd together on the shore, 

And cursed their patron from the deep, 
And came to be a perfect bore. 
Pride, rashness, and ingratitude, 
The progeny of fortune good, 
Soon brought them to a bitter cry, — 
The end of sleep for earth and sky. 
Their clamours, if they did not craze, 
Would truly seem enough to raise 
All living things to mutiny 
Against the power of Nature's eye. 
The sun, according to their croak, 
Was turning all the world to smoke. 
It now behoved to take alarm, 
And promptly powerful troops to arm. 

Forthwith in haste they sent 
Their croaking embassies ; 

To all their states they went, 
And all their colonies. 

To hear them talk, the all 
That rides upon this whirling ball, 
Of men and things, was left at stake 
"Upon the mud that skirts a lake ! 



The same complaint, in fens and bogs, 

Still ever strains their lungs ; 
And yet these much-complaining frogs 

Had better hold their tongues" ; 
For, should the sun in anger rise, 
And hurl his vengeance from the skies, 
That kingless, half-aquatic crew 
Their impudence would sorely rue. 



XXV.-THE LEAGUE OP THE RATS. 



A mouse was once in mortal fear 
Of a cat that watch' d her portal near. 
What could be done in such a ease I 
With prudent care she left the catship, 
And courted, with a humble grace, 
A neighbour of a higher race, 
Whose lordship — I should say his ratship — 
Lay in a great hotel ; 
And who had boasted oft, 'tis said, 
Of living wholly without dread. 
Well, said this braggart, well, 
Dame Mouse, what should I do ■ 

Alone I cannot rout 
The foe that threatens you. 
I'll rally all the rats about, 
And then Fll play him such a trick ! 

The mouse her courtesy dropp'd, 
And off the hero scamper'd quick. 
Nor till he reach'd the buttery stopp'd, 
Where scores of rats were clustered, 
In riotous extravagance, 
All feasting at the host's expense. 
To him, arriving there much flustered, 
Indeed, quite out of breath, 
A rat among the feasters saith, 
What news ? what news ? I pray you, speak 
The rat, recovering breath to squeak, 
Replied, To tell the matter in a trice, 
It is, that we must promptly aid the mice ; 
For old Raminagrab is making 
Among their ranks a dreadful quaking. 
This cat, of cats the very devil, 
When mice are gone, will do us evil. 
True, true, said each and all ; 
To arms ! to arms ! they cry and call. 
Some ratties by their fears 
Were melted e'en to tears. 
It matter'd not a whisk, 
Nor check'd the valour brisk. 
Each took upon his back 
Some cheese in havresack, 
And roundly swore to risk 
His carcass in the cause. 
They march'd as to a feast, 
Not flinching in the least, — 
But quite too late, for in his jaws 
The cat already held the mouse. 
They rapidly approach'd the house — 
To save their friend, beyond a doubt. 
Just then the cat came growling out, 
The mouse beneath his whisker'd nose, 
And march'd along before his foes. 
At such a voice, our rats discreet, 
Foreboding a defeat, 
Effected, in a style most fleet, 
A fortunate retreat. 
Back hurried to his hole each rat, 
And afterwards took care to shun the cat. 



BOOK XII.] 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



XXVI.— DAPHNIS AND ALCIMADURE. 

AN IMITATION OF THEOCRITUS. 
TO MADAME DE LA MESANGERE. 

Offspring of her to whom, to-day, 
While from thy lovely self away, 
A thousand hearts their homage pay*, 
Besides the throngs whom friendship binds to please, 
And some whom love presents thee on their knees i 

A mandate which I cannot thrust aside 

Between you both impels me to divide 

Some of the incense which the dews distil 

Upon the roses of a sacred hill, 
And which, by secret of my trade, 
Is sweet and most delicious made. 
To you, I say, .... but all to say 
Would task me far beyond my day ; 
I need judiciously to choose ; 
Thus husbanding my voice and muse, 
Whose strength and leisure soon will fail. 

I'll only praise your tender heart, and hale, 
Exalted feelings, wit, and grace, 
In which there's none can claim a higher place, 

Excepting her whose praise is your entail. 
Let not too many thorns forbid to touch 
These roses — I may call them such — 
If Love should ever say as much. 

By him it will be better said, indeed ; 

And them who his advices will not heed, 
Scourge fearfully will he, 
As you shall shortly see. 

A blooming miracle of yore 

Despised his godship's sovereign power ; 

They call'd her name Alcimadure. 

A haughty creature, fierce and wild, 

She sported, Nature's tameless child. 

Rough paths her wayward feet would lead 

To darkest glens of mossy trees ; 
Or she would dance on daisied mead, 

With nought of law but her caprice. 
A fairer could not be, 
Nor crueller, than she. 
Still charming in her sternest mien, — 

E'en when her haughty look debarr'd, — 
What had she been to lover, in 

The fortress of her kind regard ! 
Daphnis, a high-born shepherd swain, 
Had loved this maiden to his bane. 
Not one regardful look or smile, 
Nor e'en a gracious word, the while, 
Believed the fierceness of his pain. 
O'erweai'ied with a suit so vain, 

His hope was but to die ; 

No power had he to fly. 
He sought, impell'd by dark despair, 
The portals of the cruel fair. 
Alas I the winds his only listeners were ! 
The mistress gave no entrance there — - 
No entrance to the palace where, 
Ingrate, against her natal day, 
She join'd the treasures sweet and gay 
In garden or in wild-wood grown, 
To blooming beauty all her own. 

I hoped, he cried, 
Before your eyes I should have died ; 

* Madame de la Mesangere was the daughter of Madame 
dc la Sabliere. 



But, ah ! too deeply I have won your hate : 

Nor should it be surprising news 

To me, that you should now refuse 
To lighten thus my cruel fate. 

My sire, when I shall be no more, 

Is charged to lay your feet before 
The heritage your heart neglected. 
With this my pasturage shall be connected, 
My trusty dog, and all that he protected ; 

And, of my goods which then remain, 

My mourning friends shall rear a fane. 
There shall your image stand, midst rosy bowers, 

Reviving through the ceaseless hours 

An altar built of living flowers. 

Near by, my simple monument 

Shall this short epitaph present : 
" Here Daphnis died of love. Stop, passenger, 

And say thou, with a falling tear, 
This youth here fell, unable to endure 

The ban of proud Alcimadure. " 

He would have added, but his heart 
Now felt the last, the fatal dart. 
Forth march'd the maid, in triumph deck'd, 
And of his murder little reck'd. 
In vain her steps her own attendants check'd, 
And plead 
That she, at least, should shed, 
Upon her lover dead, 

Some tears of due respect. 
The rosy god, of Cytherea born, 
She ever treated with the deepest scorn : 
Contemning him, his laws, and means of damage, 
She drew her tram to dance around his image, 
When, woful to relate, 
The statue fell, and crush' d her with its weight ! 
A voice forth issued from a cloud, — 
And echo bore the words aloud 

Throughout the air wide spread, — 
" Let all now love — the insensible is dead." 
Meanwhile, down to the Stygian tide 

The shade of Daphnis hied, 
And quaked and wonder'd there to meet 
The maid, a ghostess, at his feet. 
All Erebus awaken' d wide, 
To hear that beauteous homicide 
Beg pardon of the swain who died, 
For being deaf to love confess'd, 
As was Ulysses to the prayer 
Of Ajax, begging him to spare, 
Or as was Dido's faithless guest. 



XXVII.— THE ARBITER, THE ALMONER, AND 
THE HERMIT. 

Three saints, for their salvation jealous, 

Pursued, with hearts alike most zealous, 
By routes diverse, their common aim. 
All highways lead to Rome : the same 
Of heaven our rivals deeming true, 

Each chose alone his pathway to pursue. 

Moved by the cares, delays, and crosses 

Attach'd to suits by legal process, 
One gave himself as judge, without reward, 
For earthly fortune having small regard. 
Since there arc laws, to legal strife 
Man damns himself for half his life. 



22i 



Oil 



THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE. 



[book XII. 



For half ? — Three-fourths ! — perhaps the whole ! 
The hope possess'd our umpire's soul, 
That on his plan he should be able 
To cure this vice detestable. — 
The second chose the hospitals. 
I give him praise : to solace pain 
Is charity not spent in vain, 
While men in part are animals. 
The sick — for things went then as now they go — 
Gave trouble to the almoner, I trow. 
Impatient, sour, complaining ever, 
As rack'd by rheum, or parch'd with fever, — 
His favourites are such and such ; 
With them he watches over-much, 

And lets us die, they say, — 
Such sore complaints from day to day 
Were nought to those that did await 
The reconciler of debate. 
His judgments suited neither side ; 
Forsooth, in either party's view, 
He never held the balance true, 
But swerved in every cause he tried. 

Discouraged by such speech, the arbiter 
Betook himself to see the almoner. 
As both received but murmurs for their fees, 
They both retired, in not the best of moods, 
To break their troubles to the silent woods, 
And hold communion with the ancient trees. 
There, underneath a rugged mountain, 
Beside a clear and silent fountain, 
A place revered by winds, to sun unknown, 
They found the other saint, who lived alone. 
Forthwith they ask'd his sage advice. 
Your own, he answer'd, must suffice ; 



Who but yourselves your wants should know ? 
To know one's self, is, here below, 
The first command of the Supreme. 

Have you obey'd, among the bustling throngs ? 

Such knowledge to tranquillity belongs ; 
Elsewhere to seek were fallacy extreme. 

Disturb the water — do you see your face ? 
See we ourselves within a troubled breast ? 
A murky cloud in such a case, 
Though once it were a crystal vase ! 
But, brothers, let it simply rest, 

And each shall see his features there impress'd. 

For inward thought a desert home is best. 

Such was the hermit's answer brief ; 
And, happily, it gain'd belief. 

But business, still, from life must not be stricken. 
Since men will doubtless sue at law, and sicken, 
Physicians there must be, and advocates, — 
Whereof, thank God, no lack the world awaits, 
While wealth and honours are the well-known baits. 
Yet, in the stream of common wants when thrown, 
What busy mortal but forgets his own 1 
0, you who give the public all your care, 
Be it as judge, or prince, or minister, 

Disturb'd by countless accidents most sinister, 
By adverse gales abased, debased by fair, — 
Yourself you never see, nor see you aught. 
Comes there a moment's rest for serious thought, 
There comes a flatterer too, and brings it all to 

This lesson seals our varied page : [nought. 

0, may it teach from age to age ! 

To kings I give it, to the wise propose. 
Where could my labours better close? 



226 



INDEX, 



A. 

Abdera, People of, and Democritus. vin. 

Acorn and Pumpkin, ix. 4. 

iEsop and the Will. u. 20. 

Adder and Man. x. 2. 

Adventurers and Talisman, x. 14. 

Advantage of Knowledge, vm. 19. 

Aleimadure and Daphnis. xu. 26. 

Amaranth and Thyrsis. vnr. 13. 

Animal in the Moon. vir. 18. 

Animals, Monkey, and Fox. vi. 6. 

Animals sending Tribute, &c. iv. 12. 

Animals sick of the Plague, vn. 1. 

Ant and Dove. ii. 21. 

Ant and Fly. iv. 3, 

Ant and Grasshopper, i. 1. 

Ape of Jupiter and Elephant, xn. 21. 

Arbiter, Almoner, and Hermit, xir. 27- 

Ass and Dog. vin. 1J. 

Ass and his Masters, vi. 11. 

Ass and Horse, vi. 16. 

Ass and Lion, hunting, n. 19. 

Ass and Little Dog. iv. 5. 

Ass and Old Man. vr. 8. 

Ass and Thieves, i. 13. 

Ass bearing Relics, v. 14. 

Ass, Dead, and Two Dogs. vnr. 25. 

Ass in Lion's Skin. v. 21. 

Ass loaded with Sponges, &c. n. 10. 

Ass, Miller, and Son. in. 1. 

Astrologer who fell into a Well. n. 13. 



Bat and Two Weasels, n. 5. 
Bat, Bush, and Duck. xn. 7- 
Bear and Gardener, vnr. 10. 
Bear and Lioness, x. 13. 
Bear and Two Companions, v. 20. 
Beetle and Eagle, it. 8. 
Belly and Members, in. 2. 
Birds, Little, and Swallow, i. 8. 
Bird wounded by an Arrow, ir. 6. 
Bitch and her Friend, n. 7- 
Boreas and Phoebus, vr. 3. 
Boy and Schoolmaster, i. 19. 
Bulls and Frog. u. 4. 
Burier and his Comrade, x. 5. 
Bust and Fox. iv. 14. 



Camel and Floating Sticks, iv. 10. 
Candle, ix. 12. 
Capon and Falcon, vm. 21. 
Cartman in the Mire. VI. 18. 

Cat and Fox. ix. 14. 



Cat and Monkey, ix. 17. 

Cat and Old Rat. nr. 18. 

Cat and Rat. vrrr. 22. 

Cat and Two Sparrows, xn. 2. 

Cat, Cockerel, and Mouse, vr. 5. 

Cat, Eagie, and Wild Sow. nr. 6* 

Cat metamorphosed to a Woman, a. 18. 

Cat, Old, and Young Mouse, xir. 5. 

Cat, Weasel, and Little Rabbit, vrr. 16. 

Charlatan, vi. 19. 

Child and Fortune, v. 11. 

Coach and Fly. vn. 9. 

Cobbler and Financier, vrrr. 2. 

Cock and Fox. n. ] 5. 

Cock and Pearl, i. 20. 

Cockerel, Cat, and Mouse, vr. 5. 

Cocks and Partridge, x. 8. 

Cocks, The Two. vn. 13. 

Combat of Rats and Weasels, iv. 6. 

Companions of Ulysses, xn. 1. 

Cook and Swan, in, 12. 

Cormorant and Fishes, x. 4. 

Council held by Rats. n. 2- 

Countryman and Serpent, vi. 13. 

Court of the Lion. vrr. 7- 

Curate and Corpse, vn. 11 



D. 



10. 



26. 



15. 



Dairy Woman and Pot of Milk. 

Daphnis and Aleimadure. xn. 

Death and the Dying, vin. 1. 

Death and the Unfortunate, i. 

Death and Wood- Chopper, i. 16. 

Democritus and the People of Abdera. vm. 26. 

Depositary, The Faithless, ix. 1. 

Discord, vr. 20. 

Doctors, v. 12. 

Dog and Ass. vrrr. 17. 

Dog and Wolf. i. 5. 

Dog carrying his Master's Dinner, vin. 7- 

Dog, Farmer, and Fox. xr. 3. 

Dog, Lean, and Wolf. rx. 10. 

Dog, Little, and Ass. iv. 5. 

Dogs, The Two, and Dead Ass. vnt. 25. 

Dog who lost the Substance for the Shadow. 

vi. 17- 
Dog with his Ears cut off. x. 9. 
Dolphin and Monkey, rv. 7. 
Dove and Ant. n. 12. 
Doves, The Two. ix. 2. 
Duck, Bat, and Bush. xir. 7. 
Ducks and Tortoise, x. 3. 
Dragon of Many Heads, &c. 1. 
Dream of the Mogul, xl. 4. 
Drunkard and his Wife. in. 7. 



12. 



\ 



98 



INDEX. 



E. 
Eagle and Beetle, n. 8. 
Eagle and Magpie, xii. 11. 
Eagle and Owl. v. 18. 
Eagle and Raven, n. 1G. 
Eagle, Wild Sow., and Cat. in. 6. 
Ears of the Hare. v. 4. 
Education, vin. 24. 
Elephant and Ape of Jupiter, xn. 21, 
Elephant and Rat. vm. 15. 
English Fox. xir. 23. 
Eye of the Master, iv. 21. 

F. 
Falcon and Capon, vm. 21. 
Falconer, King, and Kite. xn. 12. 
Farmer and Jupiter, vi. 4. 
Farmer, Dog, and Fox. xi. 3. 
File and Serpent, v. 16. 
Financier and Cobhler. vm. 2. 
Fishes and Cormorant, x. 4. 
Fishes and Joker, -vm. 8. 

Fishes and Shepherd who played the Flute, x. 11. 
Fish, Little, and Fisher, v. 3. 
Flea and Man. vm. 5. 
Fly and Ant. iv. 3. 
Fly and Coach, vrr. 9. 
Folly and Love. xn. 14. 
Fool and Sage. xn. 22. 
Fool who sold Wisdom, ix. 8. 
Forest and Woodman, xir. 16. 
Fortune and the Young Child, v. 11. 
Fortune, Ingratitude towards, vu. 14. 
Fortune- Tellers, vu. 15. 
Fortune, The Man who ran after, &e. vu. 12 
Fowler, Hawk, and Lark. vi. 15. 
Fox and Bust, iv. 14. 
Fox and Cat. ix. 14. 
Fox and Cock. u. 15. 
Fox and Goat. in. 5. 
Fox and Grapes, in. 11. 
Fox and Raven, i. 2. 
Fox and Sick Lion. vi. 14. 
Fox and Stork, i. 18. 
Fox and Turkeys, xn. 18. 
Fox and Wolf. xi. 6. xn. 9. 
Fox and Wolf before the Monkey, n. 3. 
Fox, English, xn. 23. 
Fox, Flies, and Hedgehog, xn. 13. 
Fox, Lion, and Wolf. vm. 3. 
Fox, Monkey, and Animals, vi. 6. 
Fox, Two Rats, and Egg. x. 1. 
Fox with his Tail cut off. v. 5. 
Fox, Wolf, and Horse, xn. 17. . 
Friends, The Two. vm. 11. 
Frog and Rat. iv. 11. 
Frog and Two Bulls, n. 4. 
Frogs and Hare. n. 14. 
Frogs and Sun. vi. 12. xn. 24. 
Frogs asking a King. * in. 4. 
Frog who would he as big as the Ox. i. 3. 
Funeral of the Lioness, vm. 14. 

G. 

Gardener and Bear. tiii. 10. 
Gardener and Lord. iv. 4. 
Gardener, Pedant, and School-hoy. ix. 5. 
Gazelle, Raven, Tortoise, and Rat. xn. 15. 
Gentleman, Merchant* King's Son, and Shep- 
herd, x. 16. 
Gnat and Lion. n. 9. 
Goat and Fox. m. 5. 
Goat, Heifer, Sheep, and Lion. i. 6. 
Goat, Hog, and Sheep, vm. 12. 
Goat, Kid, and Wolf. nr. 15. 
Goats, The Two. xn. 4. 



Gods wishing to educate a Son of Jupiter, xt. 2. 
Gout and Spider, in. 8. 
Grapes and Fox. m. 11. 
Grasshopper and Ant. i. 1. 



Hard to suit, Against the. n. 1. 

Hare and Frogs, n. 14. 

Hare and Partridge, v. 17. 

Hare and Tortoise, vi. 10. 

Hare, Ears of the. v. 4. 

Hawk, Fowler, and Lark. vi. 15. 

Head and Tail of the Serpent, vu. 17- 

Hedgehog, Fox, and Flies, xn. 13. 

Heifer, Sheep, Goat, and Lion. i. 6. 

Hen with Golden Eggs. v. 13. 

Hermit, Arbiter, and Almoner, xn. 27- 

Heron, vu. 4. 

Hog, Goat, and Sheep, vm. 12. 

Hornets and Honey-Bees. i. 21. 

Horoscope, vm. 16. 

Horse and Ass. vi. 16. 

Horse and Stag. rv. 13. 

Horse and Wolf. v. 8. 

Horse, Fox, and Wolf. xn. 17. 

Hunter and Lion. vi. 2. 

Hunter and Wolf. vm. 27- 

Husband, Wife, and Robber, ix. 15. 



I. 



Idol of Wood and Man. 
Ill-Married, vu. 2. 
Image and Man. i. 11. 



it. 3. 



J. 

Jay and Peacocks, iv. 9. 
Joker and Fishes, vm. 8. 
Juno and Peacock, n. 1?. 
Jupiter and Farmer, vi. 4. 
Jupiter and Thunders, vm. 20. 
Jupiter and Traveller, ix. 13. 

K. 
Kid, Goat, and Wolf. iv. 15. 
King and Shepherd, x. 10. 
King, Son, and Two Parrots, x. 12. 
King's Son, Merchant, Gentleman, and Shep- 
herd, x. 16. 
Kite and Nightingale, ix. 18. 
Kite, King, and Falconer, xn. 12. 



Labourer and his Sons. r. 9. 

Lamb and Wolf. 1. 10. 

Lark and her Young Ones, &c. iv. 22 

Lark, Fowler, and Hawk. vi. 15. 

League of the Rats. xn. 25. 

Leopard and Monkey, ix. 3. 

Lion. xr. 1. 

Lion and Ass hunting, n. 19. 

Lion and Gnat. n. 9. 

Lion and Hunter, vi. 2. 

Lion and Rat. 11. 11. 

Lion and Shepherd, vi 1. 

Lion beaten by Man. in. 10. 

Lion, Court of The. vn. 7- 

Lioness and Bear. x. 13. 

Lioness, Funeral of The. vm. 14. 

Lion going to War. v. 19. 

Lion grown old. in. 14. 

Lion in Love. iv. 1. 

Lion, Monkey, and two Asses, xi. 4. 

Lion, The Sick, and Fox. vi. 14. 

Lion, Wolf, and Fox. vm. 3. 

Litigants and Oyster, ix. 9. 

Lobster and Daughter, xn. 10. 

Love and Folly, xn. 14. 



228 



J. 



INDEX. 


99 


m: 


R. 




Magpie and Eagle, xii. 11. 


Rabbit, Cat, and Weasel, vn. 16. 




Maid, vii. 5. 


Rabbits, x. 15. 




Man and Adder, x. 2. 


Rat and Cat. vm. 22. 




Man and Flea. vm. 5. 


Rat and Elephant, vm. 15. 




Man and Image, i. 11. 


Rat and Frog. iv. 11. 




Man and Two Mistresses. I. 17- 


Rat and Lion. n. 11. 




Man and Wooden God. iy. 8. 


Rat and Oyster, vni. 9. 




Man beating a Lion. in. 20. 


Rat, City, and Country Rat. i. 9. 




Man who ran after Fortune, &c. vrr. 12. 


Rat, Old, and Cat. m. 18. 




Members and Belly, in. 2. 


Rat retired from the World, vn. 3. 




Men, The Two, and Treasure, ix. 16. 


Rats and Weasels, iv. 6. 




Merchant and Pashaw. vm. 1 8. 


Rats, Council of. n. 2. 




Merchant, Shepherd, Gentleman, and King's 


Rats, League of. xn. 25. 




Son. x. 16. 


Rats, Fox, and Egg. x. 1. 




Mercury and Woodman, v. 1. 


Raven and Eagle, n. 16. 




Miller, Son, and Ass. in. 1. 


Raven and Fox. i. 2. 




Mice and Owl. xi. 9. 


Raven, Tortoise, Gazelle, and Rat. xn. 13. 




Miser and Monkey, xn. 3. 


Reed and Oak. i. 22, 




Miser who had lost his Treasure, iv. 20. 


River and Torrent, vm. 23. 




Mogul's Dream, xi. 4. 


Robber, Husband, and Wife. ix. 15. 




Monkey, xn. 19. 






Monkey and Cat. ix. 17. 






Monkey and Dolphin, iv. 7- 


S. 




Monkey and Leopard, ix. 3. 


Sage and Fool. xn. 22. 




Monkey, Fox, and Animals. VI. 6. 


Satyr and Traveller, v. 7« 




Monkey judging Wolf and Fox. n. 3. 


Schoolboy, Pedant, and Gardener, ix. 5. 




Monkey, Lion, and two Asses, xi. 5. 


Schoolmaster and Boy. i. 19. 




Mother, Child, and Wolf. iv. 16. 


Sculptor and Statue of Jupiter, ix. 6. 




Mountain in Labour, v. 10. 


Scythian Philosopher, xn. 20. 




Mouse, Cockerel, and Cat. vi. 5. 


Serpent and Countryman, vi. 13. 




Mouse metamorphosed into a Maid. ix. 7« 


Serpent and File. v. 16. 




Mouse, Young, and Cat. xn. 5. 


Serpent, Head and Tail of. vn. 17. 




Mule boasting of his Genealogy, vi. 7. 


Servants, Two, and Old Woman, v. C. 




Mules, The Two. i. 4. 


Sheep and Wolves, m. 13. 

Sheep, Heifer, Goat, and Lion. i. 6. 




N. 


Sheep, Hog, and Goat. vni. 12. 
Shepherd and his Flock, ix. 19. 




Nightingale and Kite. ix. 13 
Nothing too Much. ix. 11. 


Shepherd and King. x. 10. 
Shepherd and Lion. VI. 1. 
Shepherd and Sea. iv. 2. 




0. 


Shepherd and Wolf. in. 3. 




Oak and Reed. i. 22. 


Shepherd, Merchant, Gentlemen, and King's 
Son. x. 16. 




Old Cat and Young Mouse, xn. 5. 


Shepherds and Wolf. x. 6. 




Old Man and Ass. vi. 8. 
Old Man and his Sons. iv. 18. 


Shepherd who played the Flute, and Fishes. 
x. 11. 




Old Man and Three Young Ones. xi. 8. 
Old Woman and Two Servants, v. 6. 


Simonides preserved by the Gods. i. 14. 
Socrates, Saying of. iv. 17. 




Oracle and The Impious, iv. 19. 


Sparrows and Cat. xn. 2. 




Owl and Eagle, v. 18. 


Spider and Gout. in. 8. 




Owl and Mice. xr. 9. 


Spider and Swallow, x. 7. 




Oyster and Litigants, ix. 9. 


Stag and Horse, iv. 13. 




Oyster and Rat. vm. 9. 


Stag and Vine. v. 15. 

Stag seeing Himself in the Water, vj. 9. 




P. 


Stag, Sick. xn. 6. 
Stork and Fox. I. 18. 




Parrots, The Two, King, and Son. x. 12. 


Stork and Wolf. in. 9. 




Partridge and Cocks, x. 8. 


Sun and Frogs, vi. 12. xn. 24. 




Partridge and Hare. v. 17- 


Swallow and Little Birds. I. 8. 




Pashaw and Merchant, vm. 18. 


Swallow and Spider, x. 9. 




Peacock complaining to Juno. II. 17 


Swan and Cook. m. 12. 




Peacocks and Jay. iv. 9. 






Pearl and Cock. i. 20. 






Peasant of the Danube, xi. 7- 


T. 




Pedant, Schoolboy, and Gardener. IX. 5. 






Philomel and Progne. in. 15. 


Talisman and Two Adventurers, x. 14. 




Phoebus and Boreas, vi. 3. 


Thieves and Ass. i. 13. 




Pigeons and Vultures, vn. 8 


Thyrsis and Amaranth, vni. 13. 




Pigeons, The Two. ix. 2. 


Tortoise and Hare. vi. 10. 




Pot of Earth and of Iron. V. 2. 


Tortoise and two Ducks, x. 3. 




Power of Fables, vm. 4. 


Tortoise, Gazelle, Raven, and Rat. xn. 16. 




Pumpkin and Acorn, ix. 4 


Torrent and River, vm. 23. 
Traveller and Jupiter, ix. 13. 




Q. 


Traveller and Satyr, v. 1. 
Treasure and Two Men. ix. ] 6. 




Quarrel of the Dogs and Cats, &c. xn. 8. 


Turkeys and Fox. xn. 18. 





229 

L0FC. 



J 00 


INDEX. 








Wolf and Dog. i. 5. 




u. 




Wolf and Fox. xn. 9. 




Ulysses, Companions of. xn. 1. 
Unfortunate and Death, i. 15. 




Wolf and Fox at the Well. xi. 6. 
Wolf and Fox before the Monkey. 
Wolf and Horse, v. 8. 


ii. 3. 


V. 




Wolf and Hunter, vin. 27. 






Wolf and Lamb, l 10. 




Vine and Stag. v. 15. 




Wolf and Lean Dog. ix. 10. 




Vultures and Pigeons, vn. 8. 




Wolf and Shepherds, x. 6. 
Wolf and Stork, in. 9. 




w. 




Wolf, Fox, and Horse, xn. 17. 




Wallet, i. 7 




Wolf, Goat, and Kid. iv. 15. 




Wax Candle, ix. 12. 




Wolf, Lion, and Fox. vni. 3. 




Weasel, Cat, and Rabbit, vn. 16. 




Wolf, Mother, and Child, it. 16. 




Weasel in a Granary, in. 17. 




Wolf turned Shepherd, in. 3. 




Weasels and Bat. n. 5. 




Wolves and Sheep, in. 13. 




Weasels and Rats. iv. 6. 




Woman drowned, ni. 16. 




Widow, The Young, vi. 21. 




Women and the Secret, vni. 6. 




Wild Sow, Eagle, and Cat. m. 6. 




Wood-Chopper and Death, i. 16. 




Will explained by iEsop. n. 20. 




Woodman and Forest, xn. 16. 




Wishes, vn. 6. 




Woodman and Mercury, v. 1. 





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